


Jesse McCree vs. Room 1123

by profit_of_the_prophet



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), This Is Not What I Expected (Movies)
Genre: AU based on the movie 'This Is Not What I Expected', Alcohol, Businessman Hanzo, Chef Jesse, Enemies to Lovers, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, M/M, Slow Burn, Smoking, not necessary to watch to understand but i recommend it as its cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-12 03:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15330570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profit_of_the_prophet/pseuds/profit_of_the_prophet
Summary: Jesse worked quickly to assist with preparing the ten dishes ordered by room 1123, where the mysterious hotel owner was staying. He watched the last plate being carted away with the rest, and shared a sigh of relief with his coworkers. That was probably their best work, but they wouldn’t know for sure until 1123 came back with his review.“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” muttered Rick. “This whole thing’s got my nerves on edge.”“Don’t let it get to ya,” said Jesse, wiping his counter down. “If that guy doesn’t like our cooking, he’s either got his nose stuffed with shit or he’s a total asshole.”Meanwhile, in room 1123...Hanzo Shimada examined the plate in front of him.





	1. Chapter 1

Every kitchen is a holy place. From the humble stove and fridge in the home, to the expensive and expansive equipment in a restaurant, we all come back to the kitchen in the end. The smell of garlic simmering in oil, the hiss of meat searing on a pan, the smooth slice of a knife through a tomato; these are part of the human race. Life is sustained and enriched by food, and throughout time food has been remolded and improved by the hands of countless pioneers. From the first egg fried on a hot stone, to the first creme brulee cracked open with a spoon, humanity has raised the culinary arts into a magnificent, multi faceted art of its own of which few are the master.

In the city of Austin, Texas, food is a living thing. It bites and boasts in the food stalls on the streets; it fills and comforts in the booths of a diner. In the home it is the enveloping smell of fresh baking, of nostalgia. But in the restaurants, the sort which charges fifty dollars for a steak and five fifty for a cup of water, food is a foe. The chefs fight every day against the starch and the sugar, and always come out on top with dishes crafted for excellence.

Jesse had always been a believer in the power of food, from the time he was a little kid, copying dishes from TV when he was home alone, as he often was. His love of food took him through the hard times of school, eased the tension of his home life, and made him many friends with the offer of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. It carried him to a career working in various restaurants, where he honed his skills under the tutelage of men and women who had spent their life mastering their dishes. His talent did not go unnoticed, and he was eventually drafted into working at the finest establishment a young chef in Austin could hope for: the Sturgeon Hotel, five star luxury destination in the heart of Austin. Compared to the other chefs there, Jesse was still green, but no one could deny his talent.

“Okay, guys, eyes here!”

Jesse turned from his sauce to look at Jean Truman, head chef of the Sturgeon kitchen.

“Currently _en route_ from the airport is a _very_ distinguished man, okay? Say he’s thinking of buying the hotel. We’ve gotta show him how _good_ we are, got it? I want to see y’all putting out your _best_ work. Now stop dicking around and get to it!”

“Yes, chef!” came the chorus from his staff. Jesse returned to stirring his sauce, adding a pinch of dill. A new owner would mean big changes. He was sure they wouldn’t want to rehire an entire kitchen staff, but maybe they’d like to switch things up? A new head chef was certainly in order. Jean was a good guy off the job, but in the kitchen he was a demon.

Jesse worked quickly to assist with preparing the ten dishes ordered by room 1123, where the mysterious hotel owner was staying. He watched the last plate being carted away with the rest, and shared a sigh of relief with his coworkers. That was probably their best work, but they wouldn’t know for sure until 1123 came back with his review.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” muttered Rick. “This whole thing’s got my nerves on edge.”

“Don’t let it get to ya,” said Jesse, wiping his counter down. “If that guy doesn’t like our cooking, he’s either got his nose stuffed with shit or he’s a total asshole.”

 

Room 1123 

Hanzo Shimada examined the plate in front of him.

“Beef Wellington,” his server announced as he lifted the lid from the tray.

The meat looked just barely red, with a flaky crust surrounding it like a second skin. Hanzo put his fork to it, testing the tenderness of the beef.

His server had a smile that could break down a door. “This dish is prepared by our head chef, Jean Truman. He came from a Michelin star restaurant to run our kitchen. It is one of our most popular dishes.”

Hanzo cut through the pastry, appreciating the perfect flake, and lifted the fork to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before his expression changed into one of shock and horror. He lifted the silver bucket at his side and spit the bite out, taking a sip of water and spitting that out too.

Hanzo wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin and said, “The duxelles between the pastry and the steak should be made with cremini mushrooms, yet he used portobello.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” stuttered the server, snapping at the young girl beside him to take away the plate.

“Michelin?” he scoffed to his assistant, who smirked despite not understanding the difference between a shiitake and an oyster mushroom.

The next tray was rolled in shortly after, and as soon as the lid was lifted Hanzo clapped a hand to his face.

“Did they seriously use chicken stock for a pot-au-feu?”

The server was much quicker to clear this tray.

Time after time, Hanzo would sample or merely smell the luxurious trays placed in front of him, and one after another, they would be refused.

“I thought this was a five star restaurant. Do you have nothing worth serving me?”

The server looked a bit sweaty under his smile as he said, “I will speak to the head chef about another dish. Excuse me a moment.”

Hanzo waved him away, sitting back in his chair.

His assistant cleared his throat, looking at something on his phone. “The Sturgeon Hotel is small but it’s in a prime location, and the building has a lot of history behind it. Should I send this in to the board for approval?”

Hanzo looked at his watch. It was already 11:30. If this sorry excuse for an establishment had anything better to send him, they had very little time to do it.

“Tell them to send a negotiator as well. This place is poorly run, and low quality, despite it’s façade. We should be able to drive the price down significantly.”

Assistant Kane nodded and started typing at his phone.

 

Sturgeon Kitchen

“He said _what_?”

Poor Clarence, Jesse thought with a pained smile. Any time a customer had an issue with their food, Jean took it out on him as bearer of bad news.

Clarence looked exhausted with all of it. “I didn’t understand most of what he said, but he spat out almost every dish.”

Jean somehow glared harder, a purple vein bulging on his forehead. “Did he like _anything_?”

Clarence looked at the dishes spread out on the table, some with only a bite missing, others untouched, and pointed at the salmon with greens.

“He ate that one. He said the fish tasted metallic? Something about the wrong frying pan? But he liked the sauce.”

Jean picked up a fork and took a small bite of the salmon, his brow folding in on itself to express his anger.

“Who made this sauce?” he boomed, looking at his employees around the kitchen.

Jesse raised his hand, and all eyes snapped to him. “Must’ve been me, chef.”

Jean pointed at him. “You. Make something. Anything. I know you’ve been screwing around with recipes when I’m not looking.”

Jesse blinked in surprise. “Me? But -”

“Shut up! Get to work! You’ve got twenty minutes before checkout.”

Jesse glanced at the clock. Make that nineteen.

He tied his bandana across his forehead, mind racing on what to make as he scanned the spice rack in front of him.

“How the hell is he gonna do it?” someone muttered. “This guy’s obviously got a stick up his ass if he didn’t like anything we made.”

Rick patted Jesse’s back as he walked past. “Shut the hell up, Jake. This guy’s an ace; have a little faith in him.”

Jesse jogged away, scanning the pantry shelves, searching for inspiration. Something that beat the long cultivated signature dishes of the Sturgeon. Something that could be made in eighteen minutes. His eyes landed on a bag of noodles tucked to the back of the shelves, and he knew.

  
Room 1123 

Hanzo stared impatiently as his watch flicked from 11:59 to 12:00.

“Checkout,” he told Kane, and stood to leave, but just then there was a knock at the door. Kane ran ahead to open it, revealing the server with a young lady behind him, carting one final dish.  
“If you would, Mr. Shimada, we have a new dish we’d like to present to you. One final example of how the Sturgeon plans to innovate the fine dining experience.”

“Mr. Shimada is a busy man, and unfortunately we have a schedule to stick to,” said Kane.

Hanzo held up a hand. “One final dish,” he said, eyeing the silver dome covering it. “I’m curious to see what the Sturgeon’s definition of innovation is.”

Kane shrugged slightly and stepped aside to let them in.

Hanzo sat again, not expecting much. Perhaps they would try to serve him steak and prawns or something ridiculous like that. The server lifted the lid, and it took Hanzo a moment to understand what was placed in front of him, and as the scent reached him, his eyes widened.

A pile of noodles sat peeking out of a cherry red broth, spooled in the centre of a beautifully plated assortment of veggies and thin slices of fine looking beef. The smell carried a sweet spice of onion and peppers, though there was an underlying ingredient he could not place. Hanzo almost felt guilty to wreck such a beautiful presentation, but tasting was what he was there for.  He lifted his fork and folded the noodles into the broth, watching as they absorbed the red like a sponge. Kane and Clarence watched his expression nervously, feeling the weight of the silence like a guillotine above their heads.

Hanzo lifted the spool of noodles to his lips and took a careful bite. The flavours exploded in his mouth like a firework, all red and juicy with hints of fresh cilantro he hadn’t even smelled. The crunch of the green onions were refreshing as water compared to the soft bite of the noodles, and he had to close his eyes to let them dissolve on his tongue, relishing the complexity of flavours in such a simple dish.

He looked at the server to his right with an expression of disbelief. “What chef have you been hiding from me all this time?”

 

Sturgeon Kitchen

Jesse bounced on his toes nervously as the server returned with the tray, searching his expression for any sign of 1123’s review.

“Well?” said Jean. “How was it?”

Clarence let out a sigh and took the lid off the plate. Jesse stared at the empty bowl in confusion.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “Where’s the leftovers?”

Clarence beamed at him. “This is it.”

Jesse blinked in confusion. “But it looks like it's been licked clean… you mean -"

“He liked it!” boomed Jean.

There was a beat, then the kitchen was loud with congratulations, hands patting him roughly on the back from all directions.

Jean smacked his shoulder so hard his knees buckled. “Don’t know how the hell you did it, son, but I’ll be owing you a drink.”

Jesse smiled, trying to hide his pride.

“There is… one thing,” said Clarence, earning a wary glare from the room. “He plans to extend his stay at the hotel.”

Jean raised his hands and looked around as if for the problem. “Good! We have to impress him, guys. I hear he had a bad first impression in the lobby.”

“Yes, of course, but…” Clarence twisted the ring on his finger, looking at Jesse with an expression between nervous and apologetic. “He will only eat Jesse’s cooking.”

Jesse’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “Who, me?”

The atmosphere in the kitchen changed almost at once. To secure 1123’s favor for the team was one thing, but Jesse had landed himself in the nice heap of trouble known as favoritism.

Jean clapped a hand on Jesse’s shoulder, not so much breaking the tension as putting a crack in it.

“Well, as long as he's happy,” he said.

Jesse nodded dully, the weight of the situation hanging by a thread above his head.

“Take the rest of the day off,” Jean said with a wave. “But you’ll be on call if 1123 gets peckish, got it?”

“Yessir,” Jesse said, and stepped aside as Jean clapped his hands and shouted for everyone to get back to work. He looked back at the tray, wanting to take a picture despite how shamelessly embarrassing the idea was, when he noticed a piece of paper tucked under the plate he hadn’t seen before. He lifted the plate and gently tugged the note out. It was written on one of the Sturgeon’s notepads found in every room, and simply said “Looking forward to more pleasant surprises.” Jesse read it three times again before tucking it into his breast pocket, glancing about to make sure no one had seen and fighting a pleased smile off his face.

 

After work Jesse was walking down the city streets aimlessly, feeling light and happy. He didn’t know or care who this 1123 person was, but being praised by such an obviously particular person was bound to make anyone’s nose a little longer.

The sun was setting on the city of Austin in a blue and orange wash when Jesse’s stomach growled. He checked his watch - nearly supper time already. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been walking, so lost in thought as he was, but figured by the time he got home and cooked himself some food it would be way too late. He decided to step into a nearby bistro advertising the best burgers and beer in Austin. He looked around the place, noting the food on other patrons tables and deciding it was good enough. It was a nicer place than he usually visited, with high ceilings decorated with all sorts of vintage lights in mason jars, and twinkling fairy lights circling the pillars elegantly. Some modern jazz music played lightly from the scattered speakers, and the customers matched the ambience, scattered and few on this Tuesday night as it was. Jesse sat himself on the bar, happy to see football was playing on the big screen there, though it was muted. An older man came up to take his order, and soon Jesse was nursing a beer while he waited hungrily for his food. He watched the screen for a while, but he was distracted when he glanced a man seated in the corner, tapping at a laptop, a glass of whiskey on his table. Jesse tried not to stare, yet he was inexplicably fascinated by the man’s entire demeanor. He was dressed in the casual way that still let one know the clothing was expensive and wearing such an intense expression that Jesse was almost afraid to know what he was working on. Yet he was good looking in a comfortable way that comes naturally to some, bleeding through in his easy confidence and natural magnetism.

Jesse’s burger and fries arrived before Jesse could fool himself into going over to the man, and he distracted himself with the joy of eating. The burger was quite good, actually. He could always tell when a restaurant skimped out on ingredients, and though the tomatoes were a cheaper variety of big beefs, he liked their overhyped “secret sauce” (a simple bacon jam). The fries were disappointing, however. He considered himself, above all things, a fry expert. His homemade fries topped anything he had tasted to date, but these were just salted and peppered. He dipped them in huge globs of ketchup to add _some_ flavour, since he was never one to waste even if he was a harsh judge.

Still, he watched from the corner of his eye as the server went up to the man in the corner, asking him if he’d like to order anything else.

“We have a really good tomato parmesan soup on special today,” said the server, indicating the untouched menu in front of the man.

The man barely glanced up at her. “I would never eat here,” he said.

Jesse’s eye twitched.

“Sorry?” the server asked, smile frozen on her face.

The man visibly sighed with impatience and looked up at her. “The moment I walked in I could smell the grease and char from the kitchen. I don't expect to find anything edible here, and the only reason I choose to remain is because it is almost empty, so there was a little peace. I'm sure you would have more customers if you found a new cook, of course.”

The server was speechless for a moment before giving out an uncomfortable laugh.

“Not hungry? No problem. Just gonna keep working on that drink then? Give me a call if there’s anythin’ else I can get ya.” She hightailed away, her expression quickly morphing into an irritated scowl. The older bartender grabbed her arm and Jesse could hear her telling him what the man in the corner had said, but the bartender just patted her arm and shook his head, quietly telling her to let it go. Jesse was pissed off, on the other hand. The nerve of this guy to not only insult the establishment, but then to boldly confirm he was only there for the table? He had seen some rude customers in his career, but it was rare to find one so nonchalant about it.

“Maybe,” Jesse said aloud, “if you’re gonna go to a restaurant and take up a valuable table, it’d do to at least order something.”

The man looked up at him with a scowl. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”

Jesse gulped the last of his beer. “This ain’t a cafe, friend. If you don’t like it here, why don’t you leave?”

The man squinted at Jesse over the blue light of his computer.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the bartender, clearing Jesse’s dishes. “We’re havin’ a bit of a slow night, anyways. There’s no harm in warming a seat.”

The man in the corner closed his laptop. “No, he’s right. I should leave. The quality here is subpar, despite all the effort put into making it appear like a reputable place.”

Jesse turned on his barstool to face him. “Did ya even _try_ the food? Who the hell’re you to say whether it’s good or not?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Are you saying that really was the “best burger and beer” you’ve ever had?”

Jesse’s hesitation was enough to earn a scoff, but it only flared his temper to burn hotter.

“It _was_ a damn good burger, and this man may be good enough to turn the other cheek, but I’ll be damned if I let you go spouting off whatever you want. Ain’t you hear of manners, or did they forget to program that part when they scrapped you together?”

The man stood, silently packing up his laptop, though Jesse could see the way his jaw clenched. He tossed some bills on the table as he went to leave, and Jesse couldn’t help a low laugh. The man stopped with a hand on the door, and turned to stare daggers at Jesse.

“Clearly you are nothing but a loud mouthed vagrant with tastes to match your personality. I would only value your opinion to steer me away from any restaurants here.” Then he said something in Japanese that would surely have resulted with Jesse taking him outside if he understood it, and left.

Jesse huffed at the door, and turned back to his servers, a jolt of regret sticking his stomach at the bartender’s weary expression.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so riled up; I just can’t control my temper sometimes.”

The server, on the other hand, was beaming at him. “Don’t even! That was awesome! That guy’s been sitting there forever, and all he ordered was the one drink. Look! He barely even touched it!”

“I will ask you to try not to cause fights in here,” said the bartender with a sigh. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“I really am sorry,” Jesse said, pulling out his money and leaving a good tip for their troubles. “But I gotta say… the fries were a little underseasoned.”


	2. Chapter 2

Room 1123 

Hanzo returned to his room still angry. He wasn’t used to Americans even after all the time he spent in the States. For every polite person there were at least three louder and ruder than the last, and it made him wonder why he made any effort to try to find a good restaurant in the city. He looked at his clock tiredly; too late to order anything from the kitchen, even considering the off chance that his golden cook was working this late. He could still taste the dish now, and it felt sacrilegious to eat anything else and have it washed away. Very few had managed to capture the essence of a dish so succinctly, yet Hanzo could taste a story in that cook’s food. It was a story of spices crossing borders, of his fine Japanese tastes melding with the bold American one. The simplicity of it was most astounding, and he couldn’t help thinking it was an apology for arriving to his life so late. Hanzo had almost considered writing to the chef, “no apology needed,” but he scrapped that idea in case it was all in his head.

Hanzo lay in bed, sleepless as always. His insomnia was always worse away from home, to a point where he considered drugging himself just for a few hours sleep, but the risk of being foggy headed was won out by the prospect of a hot cup of coffee to get him through the day. After tossing and turning uselessly, he stood and walked over to the window, where the sound of city life crept through the trees below. Someone was gently crooning an old country tune over a guitar in the park below. Hanzo closed his eyes against the warm breeze, his thoughts flitting over his schedule tomorrow, but never able to stick to anything substantial. Instead, his thoughts were filled with food and ideas of what he should order next from his golden chef.

 

Sturgeon Kitchen

“Egg?”

Clarence, Jean and Jesse crowded around the order, the single word ringing around the room.

“The hell does he mean? Boiled egg? Fried egg? I thought this guy was a fancy ass foodie.”

Clarence shrugged, frowning at the page. “He must mean the eggs benedict. It’s the only item on the menu that centres around eggs.”

“Shit, then why didn’t he say so! Come on, Jesse, time’s a wastin’.”

Jesse was still contemplating, however. “I don’t think so. Let me try something.”

Jean and Clarence stared in confusion as Jesse tied his bandana around his head and headed to grab the egg carton from the fridge.

“Now, kid, you got lucky with that noodle dish of yours, but there’s no need to be fancy anymore. If this man wants a benny, give him a benny!”

Jesse shook his head, collecting ingredients from the shelves. “He’s testing me. He wants to see what I can do, and I’ll be damned if I don’t show him.”

Jean waved a hand in exasperation. “Hope you know what you’re doing, kid.”

Clarence hovered nearby, watching Jesse work. “You haven’t met 1123, but he’s really picky. Are you sure you can do it?”

Jesse looked up at Clarence with a smile. “Hell no, but if I do what I’ve always done, I’m sure I’ll get by.”

Clarence eyed the ingredients Jesse was laying out. “And what is that?”

Jesse shot him a cheeky grin, tossing an egg into the air and catching it. “Improvise,” he said, and got to work.

 

Room 1123 

Hanzo lifted the lid off the tray, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. Lying on a bed of spring greens under a golden english muffin was a sunny side up egg. Hanzo smirked, testing the yolk with his fork.

Assistant Kane peered at the plate, unimpressed. “Just a regular egg? Kind of a let down, huh?”

Hanzo shook his head. “He’s just saying good morning.”

Kane tipped his head in confusion, but Hanzo ignored him and cut into the egg. The yolk was a vibrant orange, cooked to a perfect state between solid and liquid so that it looked more like pudding than yolk. Hanzo lifted it to his mouth, and the butter popped deliciously in his mouth, rich yet not at all greasy. Hanzo appreciated most those dishes that could encapsulate the most sinful of flavours without being disgusting. Truly this chef knew what he was doing.

“What position does this chef hold?” he asked the server standing at the ready to his right.

“Ah, he is the saucier, mainly. He’s one of our newer hires; I believe he’s been with us for a few months now.”

Hanzo hummed, taking another slow bite of egg. He was surprised that this golden cook was not running the place, but his newness explained much.

Assistant Kane checked his watch when Hanzo had finished and clapped his hands, ready to go.

“Now that you’ve had breakfast, we should be going to -”

Hanzo held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t believe we’re finished.”

Kane frowned and said, “What do you mean -” but he was interrupted by a knock at the door, and it opened to reveal another tray being carted in.

 _Just as I thought_ , Hanzo thought with a smile. The lid of the second dish was lifted to reveal three quail eggs, the tops cracked open and garnished with julienned peppers and mushrooms dripping down the sides. After that was smoked salmon on a baguette with whipped egg mousse, then a mini spinach quiche that popped with bite after bite of savoury bacon and chewy mushrooms. He ate every dish, scraping the sides, until he was sure he could stand no more, when the last tray was carted in.

“A final dish, I hope?”

His server nodded. “Unless you are still hungry, sir?”

Hanzo shook his head, feeling more satisfied than he had in ages. “Let’s see what we have here, then.”

When the lid was lifted, Hanzo actually laughed out loud. There sat a small cake, covered in swirling white icing, with a little fried egg fashioned from fondant sitting proudly on top.

“He even cut a piece out,” said Hanzo, his cheeks hurting from smiling.

Kane looked confused. “I don’t understand, sir. Dessert for breakfast?”

Hanzo gently put the slice onto his plate, amazed at the way the cake glistened, it was so moist. How had he managed this in such short time?

“No, Kane, you don’t understand. He’s trying to show off.”

Kane nodded, though he still didn’t get it. “It looks good, sir.”

“Piece of cake,” Hanzo said to himself, chuckling again. _Was that really too easy, chef?_

 

Sturgeon Kitchen

Jesse had checked under every plate for a note, and of course he found it under the last one. _If you’re looking for a challenge, I am happy to oblige._

Jesse smiled so wide it reached his ears. 1123  _got_ it. He was worried for a second that the cake would go over his head, but clearly they shared a wavelength when it came to food. He tucked the note into his pocket and happily went about cleaning up, the mess of egg shells and spices too abhorrent to stand any longer.

As he put everything away, he wondered who 1123 was. He imagined a rich old man who wore three piece suits and controlled an empire of hotels with the severity of a king. He probably had a wife twenty years younger than him and two sons who fought to see who would inherit the family business. Or maybe he was young and single, a natural born tycoon raised with such expensive tastes that only the best food could satiate his palate. Jesse wondered what he would do with the hotel if he bought it, and what that would mean for him if the new owner really took a shine to him. Maybe he’d be sent to a nicer hotel somewhere in the world; Italy would be nice, or even Spain. He worked as he fantasized about all the possibilities, bringing an armload of ingredients back into the fridge and storing them, but just as he was opening the door again to walk out, the murmur of his name made him stop.

“...Only been working here a few months,” one of the voices was saying; it sounded like Laurie.

“He got this job for a reason.” He knew that voice. That was Rick.

“Didn't he say he never went to culinary school? I'd call that dumb luck, if anything.”

“Come on, don't be petty, now,” Rick said.

“I'm not being petty, fucker, I'm nervous. If this new owner is really who I think he is, we could all be outta jobs. Haven’t you heard of the Shimada family? They buy cheap hotels and gut them out so they can put their own people in. Jean and Teresa have been working here ten years, and this bigshot spat out their best work like it was stale bread.”

“What are you saying? Jesse was trained by them, same as all of us.”

“Just smells shitty,” said Laurie, and turned the corner to come face to face with Jesse. Rick stood behind her, a shocked expression on his face and a box of tomatoes in his arms.

Jesse flashed a congenial smile, ignoring Laurie’s initial look of shock that shifted into a defensive glare.

“Scuse me,” he said, squeezing past.

He sighed once he got back to his station. He thought he was getting along with the other cooks in the Sturgeon kitchen pretty well, but Jean warned him about the competitive nature in a kitchen of this scale. Hierarchy played a huge role in the kitchen, so as the newest addition Jesse shouldn't even be allowed the privilege of a water break until he’d been working there a year. He didn't have time to worry about that now, though. His station was still a mess from making 1123’s food and he still had to prepare sauces for the dinner rush. Tying his red bandana around his head, he got back to work.

 

Room 1123 

“What do you mean you're staying there?”

Hanzo kept his face calm as he replied. “I believe there’s more to look into here. I’ve already pushed back the meeting with Los Angeles; everything will still go as planned.”

His father was Facetiming him as he ate in his office, loudly slurping noodles to Hanzo’s discomfort. He hated the sound of people eating, much less having to watch it, but since it was his father, he had no choice but to sit and squeeze his stress ball under the table.

“I need you in Japan, Hanzo. Your brother is out of control, and you know he only listens to you.”

Hanzo nodded stiffly. “I’ll call him.”

“Good,” his father said behind a mouthful of beef. “Don’t take too long.”

Hanzo nodded and sighed when the screen went dark. What the fuck was Genji up to now? He tapped a reminder to call him later and set about getting ready for bed.

The summer sky in Austin was still a light purple as Hanzo struggled to sleep. Another problem with this damn hotel was the thinness of the curtains. After an hour of hopeless tossing and turning he sat up, glaring wearily at the clock. Not even nine, yet. He decided to call Genji; if he wasn't awake by now then it would be his own fault for sleeping so long.

The phone rang twice before Genji answered, breathless and barely audible over the heavy bass of music.

“One second, brother,” he could barely hear him say.

“Genji?” Hanzo said, standing from his bed and pacing to the window. He listened as Genji excused himself in English, the heavy beat of the music growing faint until a door slammed and Genji brought the phone back to his face.

“Yo, what’s up?”

Hanzo pinched his nose with his fingers, suspicion creeping down his skull like hot wax.

“Where are you?” he snapped.

Genji laughed breathily like he was caught in a lie. “Ah, I wanted to keep this a surprise.”

Hanzo wished he hadn't called.

“I'm in America! Surprise! I came to see you, brother.”

“It doesn't sound like you are here for me.”

“Ah, I just arrived. I know how early you go to sleep, so I was going to - oh, for me? Thank you so much!”

Hanzo heard a high pitched laugh join the other end of the call. “I will come meet you,” he said reluctantly. He couldn't leave his little brother to do whatever he pleased in a strange city; even in America there were paparazzi who would get a good sum for selling a picture of Genji to a Japanese magazine, wasted or in the company of strange women.

“No no no no no,” Genji quickly said, but Hanzo was already opening the tracking device on his phone.

“Wait outside. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Brother, wait -” but Hanzo had already hung up on him and started dialing Kane.

 

Twenty minutes later had Hanzo sitting in the car while Kane went into the club to find Genji, which was apparently easier said than done as he came back shaking his head. The tracking app showed Genji’s phone as still being at the building. Maybe he was in the ladies washroom? With an impatient sigh he got out and froze upon seeing a woman, smoking and holding a bright green phone with an anime character charm hanging off of it. There was little doubt who owned that phone. He stormed up to her, pointing at the phone.

“Who gave you that? Where did he go?”

She blinked up at him in surprise. “Oh… my friend. Uh, he asked me to hold on to it for him? He was gonna go buy more smokes?”

Hanzo cursed and turned back to Kane.

“He got away,” he said, looking around angrily. Kane was busy checking out the girls walking past in short skirts and cowboy boots. Hanzo hit his chest with the back of his hand.

“Focus. We have to find him; he couldn't have gone far. You go that way, I’ll go this way.”

“Yes, sir,” Kane said, jogging off towards the crowds of people teeming around the intersection.

Hanzo started walking the other way, feeling unusually vulnerable by himself. He was tired and annoyed, so there was no saying what he would do if he actually found Genji. He told himself to calm down so that he didn't accidentally strangle his only brother.

The sky was dark by now, and the hub of people walking around downtown Austin filled the air with a cacophonous symphony accompanied by the noise of cars and drone of country music pouring from the surrounding bars. Hanzo peeked into each bar he passed, searching for a flash of neon hair and hoping Genji hadn't undergone another dramatic appearance change since he’d seen him last.

He stopped a few people as he walked, trying to describe his little brother. “He’s about this tall, with bright green hair,” he’d say to no avail. Hoping Kane was having better luck, he pulled out his phone and dialed the assistant, putting a hand on his hip and glaring coldly at the curious passerby.  

“Hey, boss,” Kane answered.

“Did you find him?” he snapped.

“No, not yet, but -”

Hanzo didn't listen, since at that moment he saw Genji, leaning against the wall across the street and chatting with some young man. He hung up on Kane, murder in his eyes and called out his brother’s name.

“Genji!”

Genji’s head whipped to the side and his eyes grew wide, but instead of walking over, he took the young man’s hand and started running away. _The little shit_ , Hanzo thought, and started running after him. Genji was turning a corner, about to be lost, so Hanzo looked quickly down the street before sprinting across the road. He didn't notice the car turning on the intersection until the horn blared. All he had time to do was turn and stare wide eyed at the headlights before someone tackled him from behind, knocking him to hit the curb painfully.

The car continued to honk angrily as it tore down the street. Hanzo stared after it, waiting for his heart to start beating again. His savior struggled to his feet, hissing with pain.

“Jesus Christ, that was fucking close,” he said, hauling Hanzo to his feet and leading them off the road.

Hanzo couldn't help the shaky feeling that washed over him as he realized how close death had passed by. It almost made him forget about Genji, but as the thought of his brother brushed by, his head jerked up and he ran to the corner Genji had disappeared behind. There was no shock of green in the crowd of people milling by, and Hanzo swore, running a hand over his tired face.

“Hey, you alright?”

Hanzo felt a stone of guilt in his stomach as he realized how rudely he had ignored the man who saved him, but when he turned to face him, recognition flashed in both their faces.

“You?” Hanzo said, unable to control the scorn in his voice.

The American quirked an eyebrow, looking just as unhappy as Hanzo was to see him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Small world, huh.”

Hanzo couldn't forget the cocky American who had forced him from the subpar restaurant if he tried. He forced himself to school his expression from distaste to a neutral one.

“Thank you for saving me,” he said, inclining his head.

“Yeah, of course. Try not to walk through traffic next time,” the man said before turning away, rubbing his arm. Hanzo saw a smear of red blood staining the rolled up flannel around his elbow, and grabbed his shoulder before he could leave.

“You’re injured?”

The man flinched and shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Hanzo held onto his arm as he pulled out his phone. “I'll take you to the hospital; it's the least I can do.”

The American grimaced, but said nothing as he dialed for Assistant Kane.

“Boss? Did you find him?”

“No, and I don't want to spend all night looking. Come pick me up.”

“Right away,” said Kane, and Hanzo hung up.

The American stared at him like he was some sort of alien. “You callin’ a cab?”

“My driver will take us to the hospital.”

“Whoa, for real? No, of course you have a driver.” The man pushed his hand away. “I live close by. I can walk.”

Hanzo glared, his patience already thin. “But you are bleeding.”

“It’s not that bad, see? I don't want to waste any doctor’s time.”

Hanzo refused to look at the bloody mess of his arm that he held out. Obviously this man had a high tolerance for pain if that was nothing. “If that gets infected, you could lose your arm.”

The American actually looked surprised. “Really?”

Hanzo scoffed. “Are all Americans so ignorant?”

The man puffed up on behalf of either himself or his countrymen. “Don't go making me regret saving your sorry ass, now,” he said.

Hanzo ignored him and flagged down Kane as he passed by. “I will repay this debt. Get in the car.”

“What? No.”

Hanzo’s eye twitched. “Yes. Kane, help this man inside.”

Kane climbed out and opened the back door, looking confused. “Everything okay, boss?”

“Seriously,” said the man. “I'm fine.”

Hanzo stared him down, not even bothering to mask his impatience. “I insist.”

Sighing, the man held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. But no hospital. I live a few blocks down; just drop me off and we’ll call it even.”

Hanzo considered fighting this, but just thinking of how late it was made him feel tired, and the chore of going to a hospital was almost painful to consider.

“Fine. Get in.”

Finally the American consented, and just before closing the door Kane leaned in and pleaded, “Try not to bleed on the seats.”

“I’ll do my best,” drawled the man sarcastically.

Hanzo waited for Kane to open the passenger side before slumping inside with a small groan. He wasn't as bad off as the American, but he knew he’d be sore and bruised in the morning. He’d be sure to hold this over Genji when the little shit finally showed up.

“Just turn down there,” said the American. Hanzo felt his eyes growing heavy with the soft rumble of the car.

“What the hell were you running after back there, anyway?”

Hanzo blearily processed the words and sighed. “My brother.”

“Got in a fight?”

Hanzo smirked. “With him? Always. He is notoriously uncooperative.”

“Well, with a guy like you for a brother, can't say I'm surprised.”

Kane glared back at the man in Hanzo’s stead. “Show some respect,” he muttered instinctively, but Hanzo waved his hand dismissively.

 _“Americans aren’t taught such things,”_ he said in Japanese. _“Especially this one.”_

The man laughed. “I don't even speak Japanese and I got that. Fuck you, too.”

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, fire burning against ice.

“This is fine,” he said, gesturing to a street corner. “I'll walk the rest of the way. Thanks for the ride.”

Hanzo sighed as the man climbed out and rolled down his window to address him.

“Again, thank you,” he said.

The man shook his head, smirking. “Don't mention it. You know, I don't say this too often, but I sincerely hope we never meet again.”

Hanzo actually laughed out loud. “Then we are in agreement.” He held out his hand to shake. The American reached out with a wince and squeezed.

“It's a promise.”

 

Jesse watched the car roll away and spat at the ground. At least the rude fucker had the decency to try and return the favor, even if he went about it in the expected way. He hated to admit that he might've taken a worse fall than he’d initially thought as he limped towards his apartment.

The old building was all Jesse could afford in the city, and it looked like it. The brown facade was white once, and the shriveled plants surrounding its base looked like they had already fossilized in the unwelcome Texas heat. He sighed with relief anyways; it had been a long day, and all he'd wanted was to be at home. He unlocked the door and struggled up the stairs to his floor, wondering how one got blood out of clothes and already mourning the loss of his favorite shirt.

Barking greeted him as soon as he stuck the key in the lock and he grinned to see his little bulldog at the door, stubby tail wagging with joy.

“Hey, Boss,” he murmured, crouching down to rub his ears. The dog licked his hand wetly and scampered off to the kitchen where his bowl sat empty.

“Ya hungry, buddy?” Jesse said as he retrieved Boss’ food from the cupboard. Boss had his head in the bowl as Jesse was pouring, and he chuckled and scratched his big head. “Sorry I couldn't get home earlier. Wish I could've taken you to the dog park.” Boss ignored him to inhale the kibble, and Jesse retreated to the bathroom to strip his shirt and inspect his concrete burn. Some of the cuts had already stopped bleeding, but he poured stinging rubbing alcohol on them anyways, hissing as it entered the wound. He bandaged the worst of them before limping to his bed and collapsing like a bag of flour. His last coherent thoughts were to plug in his phone before closing his eyes, feeling like he might pass out from weariness. But the only thing his mind offered in his trying time was flashbacks of the dick whose life he’d saved. That man was too handsome for his personality, but when you were as rich as that you must have an upper hand in some departments. He couldn't help his curiosity, and almost regretted their sour and short lived relationship. He might've liked to get to know him, if they didn't mix like fire and water.

 _In another life, Jesse,_ he told himself before finally drifting to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Sturgeon Kitchen

Jesse had spent the week cooking for 1123. The orders, which started as simple measures of his abilities with the simplest directions such as chicken or carrot, soon morphed into something much more complex. When the first one arrived, saying simply ‘anger,' Jesse had been confused before realizing 1123 wanted to taste the _feeling._ He struggled to think of a dish that could encapsulate the word, and unbidden the Japanese man from the restaurant came to mind. Their short acquaintance brought nothing but animosity to mind, so he decided to funnel that feeling into a burger. 1123 may not understand the reference, but Jesse would mould the dish into something truly infuriating to eat. He made it tall, too tall to eat comfortably and so that 1123 would have to form an expression like a scream to take a bite. He made it crunchy with fried pickles and onions and a crispy bun, since he’d read somewhere people craved crunchy food when angry. He made a stuffed patty that would explode with cheese when 1123 got to the middle, making a mess that might stain his shirt, if he wasn't careful, and topped it all with a spicy sauce that would make 1123 sweat without actually burning. Jesse gave the plate to Clarence apprehensively, wondering if he had gone too far, but the plate returned an empty mess with a note that read, _I deserved that._

Jesse chuckled and tucked it into his pocket, relieved to see 1123 was truly down for anything. He could hardly wait for the next order.

Finally Friday arrived, and as they did every week, the Sturgeon kitchen staff went out for drinks. Jesse appreciated the time to socialize with his co-workers outside of the kitchen. Something about the workplace atmosphere made everyone too tense to really relax around him, so he made the best of seeing their true selves while deep in their cups.

Laurie was on stage singing a duet with Alex, and a gaggle of five were in a crowd before the dart board, exclaiming too loudly when one of them missed the mark. Which was nearly every time.

Jesse sat tiredly nursing his beer while Clarence told the table about some high-nosed customer he’d just had to deal with that day.

“I mean, it's the law, right? If we can't have straws because of what shit they do the environment, then that’s that! But, no, it's impossible to drink a margarita without a straw, apparently.”

Clark was laughing at some joke in the story Jesse didn't get. “So what’d you do?”

Clarence put his hands above the table. “Get this. We have no straws, right? But she's freaking out, wants to sue, yadda yadda. So I go into the kitchen -” he pauses to hold in a burp, “and I go into the pantry, I find the bucatini, and I bring it back to her on a silver platter, the whole show. And - get this - she's ecstatic. She's showing everyone her fucking pasta straw like I just brought her the cure to global warming.”

Jesse joins in the laughter, remembering Clarence carefully cutting the ends off to make it more palatable.

Clarence shakes his head and tries to talk over their drunken giggles. “No, but get this. She told _Diane_ about how _genius_ I was, and now we're gonna be serving pasta straws with _every drink_!”

“No,” said Tom, horrified despite his giggles. “That'll look ridiculous!”

Clarence just nodded, rubbing his temples with his hands. “I know,” he said, and everyone started laughing again.

Jesse wiped his eye and stood, surprised at how unstable the floor felt. He might have had too much to drink. He mumbled something about taking a piss before sauntering off, but Sam had started her own Tale of the Day and no one even noticed.

As much as he appreciated the weekly get togethers, he was far too tired to be drinking. He was considering stopping somewhere for coffee as he opened the door to the bathroom, but just as he was about to close it behind him someone barreled through, knocking him back.

“Hey,” he protested, but the man just slammed and locked the door behind them, fear etched on his young face.

Jesse blinked blearily at the man, taking in his fashionable skinny jeans and baggy sweater, the silver rings enameling his knuckles and his bright green hair that stuck up like grass.

The stranger turned to Jesse and put his hands together in apology. “Sorry, really sorry, I just need to hide from someone for a few minutes.” He gestured to the urinal. “Please, continue.”

Jesse felt a little sobriety sneaking back into his system at the ridiculousness of the situation, but he was still too drunk to really care. He unzipped and relieved himself, noting the young stranger at least had the decency to keep his face to the door the whole while. Jesse washed his hands and turned back to the man.

“So how's ‘bout you tell me what's going on here.”

The man turned to look at him with amazement. “Whoa, you really sound like a cowboy,” he said.

Jesse sniffed, ready for an insult. “That a problem?”

“No! It's so cool. When I came to Texas I hoped to meet more people who actually sounded like they, you know. Came from Texas.”

Jesse shrugged. “Yeah, we stick to the small towns mostly. Anyways, tell me what you're hiding from.”

The young man twisted his rings nervously, glancing at the door as if he expected someone to burst through any second. “It's my brother. He wants to chain me up in the hotel, but I came all this way, so I plan to see the city.”

Jesse hummed in response. “Sounds rough. Tell ya what,” he said, “you point him out to me and I'll try and distract him while you sneak out, okay? Can't have you hogging the bathroom, now.”

The young man beamed at him like he had just saved his life. “Really?! Thank you so much!”

Jesse turned his face to a 45 degree angle, trying not to look too proud of himself. “Don't mention it. Now, show me where he is.”

They opened the door a crack, peeking their heads out and ignoring the man in line who scowled at them.

Jesse squinted at the crowd visible down the corridor. “So?”

The man pointed a finger at the crowd. “There! He's the angry Japanese dude. He looks like he's trying to floss his teeth with his tongue? You can't miss him.”

And Jesse found he couldn't. Standing in the middle of the bar, looking like he was ready to raze the place to the ground, was the man from the restaurant. The same man whose life he'd saved. The same he’d promised to never meet again.

Jesse cursed, and as if hearing him, the man’s eyes whipped to the two of them peeking out of the doorway. He smirked dangerously and started advancing, and Jesse and the young man slammed the door shut as one. Jesse locked it, the cold prick of fear sobering him up a bit.

The door started to bang with knocking. “Genji!” the man outside shouted. “I know you're in there!”

The young man - Genji, Jesse could assume - broke out in a sweat as he grabbed Jesse’s arm. “Please, you have to fight him off for me.”

Jesse shook his head violently. “Aw, hell no. Unfortunately for us, I happen to have bad blood with that guy, and have no intention of running into him again.”

Genji moaned and clutched his hair. “Of course you do! Who hasn't he pissed off already.”

They didn't have much time to think of a solution as they heard the older brother’s muffled voice outside say, “Just break it down. I'll pay for damages.”

The knocking was replaced by a heavier thud of someone bashing their shoulder into the wood and the frantic cry of the manager, likely, asking them to stop.

“He’ll stop at nothing to catch me,” Genji muttered hopelessly.

Jesse frantically looked about, and finally noticed the window above the sink.

“Hey, look,” he said to Genji. “Think we could fit?”

Genji looked up at the window with wide eyes and gasped. “I can, certainly. But you…?”

Jesse punched him lightly. “I can squeeze. Come on, get on my shoulders.”

Genji climbed Jesse like a tree and struggled to unlatch the window, and it occurred to Jesse that he was likely as drunk as himself.

“Hurry up,” he said, listening to Genji’s brother arguing with the manager over unlocking the door.

“I'm trying!” Genji gasped. “Got it!”

The window opened with a shower of paint flakes, and Genji wormed his way out. Jesse felt a flinch of fear in his stomach as a key started to clatter in the lock. He pushed on Genji's legs to hurry him up and flinched as he slid through with a pained _oomph_ as he met the street below.

Jesse hauled himself to stand on the sink, praying he didn’t break it, and stuck his head out, barely squeezing his barrel of a chest through the small rectangle.

“Hey! Get down from there!” yelled a voice from behind.

“They got in!” he hissed to Genji, who was still trying to stand up. “Help pull me!”

Genji stumbled to his feet and grabbed onto his arms just as two pairs of hands grabbed his legs.

“They got me!” he said to Genji, frantically pulling against the hands grabbing at his backside.

Genji gritted his teeth and dug in his feet. “I won't let them!”

With a strength Jesse did not expect from someone his size, Genji pulled Jesse straight out of the window with a yell, slamming him to the ground.

Jesse moaned but didn't have a chance to recover as Genji pulled him to his feet.

“They're in the alley!” they heard someone say. “After them!”

Genji tugged Jesse’s arm. “We gotta run!”

Jesse let himself be dragged, but looked back at the window a little desperately.

“Wait!” he said, and Genji stopped to look back impatiently.

Jesse gestured to himself. Genji looked down at Jesse’s bare legs, and back at the window where his jeans still hung from the windowsill. Someone pulled them back as he watched. “My pants!”

Genji barely held in a snort. “I think I like you, cowboy,” he said. “Come back later! We have to run!”

Jesse glanced behind him and saw it was true, as three men were barreling down the alley towards them. He ran breathlessly behind Genji, following him down different turns and corners until they finally ducked behind a dumpster, holding their breath and listening to their pursuers run past them.

Genji sighed with relief and leaned against the alley wall. “We're safe,” he said, but all it took was a glance at Jesse's hairy legs to get him laughing again. Jesse glared at him before delivering a punch to his stomach. Genji doubled over, but it was a light punch and he kept laughing.

“I'm sorry - I really am, please!” He had to wipe tears from his eyes before saying, “I'll buy you new pants. As thank you.”

Jesse huffed and looked away. “Well, I was trying to save my own ass too.”

“Which is a story you _have_ to tell me,” Genji said. “Come on, let's find a store.”

Jesse crossed his legs insecurely. “Like this?”

Genji shook his hand. “No one will even notice,” he lied. “It just looks like you're wearing shorts!”

Jesse looked down at his polka dot patterned underwear. “If you say so,” he said.

Genji was red from holding in laughter. “Great. Let's go.”

 

Hanzo ended the call with Kane as soon as he said they couldn't find Genji. He swore, scaring a drunk patron into stumbling back from him, and stormed to the manager who was sweating at his approach. The man wasn't dull witted enough not to recognize that Hanzo was a man with power, thankfully for him.

Hanzo snatched the pair of jeans from the man, the only thing they had managed to grab from Genji’s accomplice in their escape through the window. He fished through the pockets until he found what he was looking for: a wallet.

Hanzo thumbed through it, noticing the small amount of money and few cards, until he found what he was looking for: a license.

The man in the picture was younger, hair shorter, eyes brighter, but there was no mistaking that face. Hanzo squinted at the man and swore. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”

The manager blinked nervously. “I'm sorry?”

Hanzo ignored him and pulled out his card. “Call tomorrow; my assistant will arrange compensation for this incident. I apologize for any inconvenience.”

The manager nodded, and Hanzo stormed out of the bar. He waited until he was in the car again and headed back to the hotel before he pulled out the license again. He read the address at the bottom, the date of birth, the height and eye color. Anger at having his brother escape him swirled through his mind, and he directed it at the familiar face on the license photo.

“Jesse McCree,” he muttered, “you will pay.”

 

Jesse woke the next day in an unfamiliar room from a persistent headache that he didn't even remember earning. He turned over and fell onto the floor, not realizing he was one of two people crammed onto a leather couch. His groan woke his companion, who sat up with a startled snort and looked around the room blearily before he saw Jesse.

“Oh, morning, cowboy,” said Genji.

Jesse groaned and struggled to sit. That was a mistake, he realized, as all his blood crashed against the walls of his skull and set his brain spinning.

“What the hell happened,” he muttered.

Genji stretched his arms above his head and jumped to his feet. “Ah, I'm sore. You want breakfast?” Jesse glared at the young man limp to the kitchen, apparently barely hungover despite how terrible Jesse felt.

Chalking it up to youth, he hauled himself to his feet, trying to ignore how bad he smelled as he followed Genji to the kitchen.

Genji was already putting on a pot of coffee and searching the fridge, pulling out eggs, spinach and pickles.

“We drank a lot, cowboy. You look awful.” He laughed, and cracked an egg into a blender and pouring pickle juice over top of it before stuffing it to the top with spinach.

“This’ll make you feel one thousand times better. Trust me.”

Jesse was still struggling to remember who Genji was, but as he settled on the kitchen stools with his head in his hands, it started to come back with him. He would never forget the escape from the older brother where he lost his pants, and the consequential search for a new pair with Genji. They scoured for a place that didn’t kick them out as soon as they saw Jesse’s undressed state until they came across a bodega. Genji chose Jesse a pair of shiny silver pants he insisted were very fashionable. Jesse was half convinced he was being tricked, but something about Genji’s cheeriness caused him to wear them and follow the young man to another bar, where things unfortunately went black.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” he asked as Genji put a milky green glass in front of him.

Genji looked surprised. “You don’t? It was a blast! I never thought you could sing so well!”

Jesse glared at Genji’s purposefully cheeky smile, but before he could push the matter Genji tapped the table. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

Jesse looked at the glass with doubt, but tipped his head back and gulped the thing down. He didn’t know how he managed not to spew chunks across the kitchen, but he held his mouth closed and willed himself to swallow it all. Genji stared in surprise.

“You actually drank it?”

Jesse slammed the drink and stood, but Genji laughed and danced around the kitchen island, out of reach. “I just mean most people are too chicken! It’s perfectly fine, see? I’ll drink it too.”

Genji took a long swallow from his own glass, and made a show of pouring it all in his mouth. He stood frozen, a glazed look taking over his eyes and his cheeks bulging with liquid, before turning and spitting it down the sink.

“You little fucker!” Jesse said, laughing despite himself. He was actually starting to feel better, but that only meant he was a little clearer headed, and he looked around the room curiously.

“Is this your place?” he asked. It was an absolute mess. Empty liquor bottles littered the coffee table and an assortment of clothes were draped on every surface and piled in the corners. Some small black garbage bags were stacked next to the door.

“Oh, no, this is Marty’s place.”

“Who?” was all Jesse could ask before Marty stumbled in. He was only wearing boxer briefs and had a look of pure confusion upon seeing them, but when Genji smiled and said good morning, recognition filled his scraggy face and he smiled widely.

“Ah, my new friends. How are you feeling? Need a pick me up?” he said, pulling a bottle of scotch from behind the couch and taking a swig. Jesse stood and took Genji’s arm. “We should be leaving,” he said. He didn’t remember meeting Marty, but something about him was sketchy enough to want him and Genji out of there.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Karen! Wake up, I’m hungry.” A sleepy looking woman wearing nothing more than a shirt and undies shuffled out from the room as well.

Jesse tugged on Genji and they found their shoes with some difficulty before making their escape. Genji seemed to want to stay, but Jesse convinced him to leave with the promise of breakfast.

“Marty was so funny! Do you remember how he did a backflip right onto a police car?”

Jesse didn’t want to remember, but he let Genji recount the night as they walked to the bus stop. He felt through his pockets, panicking with the realization he lost his wallet. He went to go back to Marty’s and search for it there, but Genji stopped him with a laugh.

“Don’t you remember getting your pants ripped off in the bathroom?” he said. “It must still be there.”

“Ah, shit,” Jesse mumbled. “My bus pass was in there.”

Genji shook his head as if Jesse were ridiculous. “Let me; I’ll get us a ride.”

He pulled out his phone and spoke to someone in Japanese, asking Jesse to tell him what street to look for them on, before settling on some steps and pulling out a cigarette. Jesse took one gratefully, but before they could even finish smoking a sleek black car pulled up in front of them and Genji hopped to his feet, unfairly energetic even with a hangover.

Jesse piled in the back beside Genji, feeling terribly out of place. Considering who his brother was, though, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Genji flaunting his wealth so casually as well.

“Where to?” Genji asked.

“Oh, we can go back to your hotel,” Jesse said. “I’ll walk from there.”

Genji scowled and shook his finger. “No way, cowboy, you promised me breakfast.”

Jesse considered his lack of funds at the moment, inaccessible until he worked up the gall to go back to the bar and beg for it back (if they hadn’t thrown it away out of spite). He decided a shower would be nice, and he had enough food in his fridge to make Genji something nice. He gave the driver his address and sat back as Genji chattered endlessly about their night.

 

Genji seemed fascinated by Jesse’s apartment.

“It’s so… what’s the word? Authentic?”

He was delighted with Boss, who waddled up to give his crotch a good sniff. Jesse pulled the dog away with a laugh and gave Genji free reign to shower while he prepared breakfast. By the time Genji was showered and wearing some of Jesse’s old clothes, Jesse had set him out a fine breakfast of fruit, fresh soft boiled eggs, buttered baguette with jam and some nice cheese he’d managed to snag from the Sturgeon, since it was almost expired. Genji looked at the spread with marvel and digged in, washing down his bites with sugary coffee while Jesse slinked into the shower and turned it up hot. It had been too long since he’d gone all out partying like that, and he could feel it in every inch of his body.

When he’d dried off and dressed into fresh clothes, he came into the living room to find Genji examining his corkboard of mementos. He had hung a picture of his highschool friends in their graduation dresses, a picture of him and his first boss at their Christmas party, some of his family, lots of Boss. But Genji seemed to have moved past those and was reading the little notes written on the Sturgeon notepaper by 1123 that Jesse had pinned alongside the rest. Jesse flushed with embarrassment and cleared his throat.

Genji didn't even flinch at being caught; he smiled up at him and pointed at the notes. “Your lover?”

“What? No,” Jesse quickly huffed. “Don't read those.”

Genji hummed and went back to reading. “But they're so romantic! ‘You must have satiated me for a lifetime, but somehow I still feel hungry’?” Genji put a hand to his heart and sighed.

Jesse tried not to smile, ignoring the light feeling crawling up his spine and spilling into his stomach. 1123 wrote compliments so ridiculously sweet they might as well be love notes, but Jesse knew better, even if he squirmed like a schoolgirl every time he read one.

Genji was still reading, “‘You are excellent, as always,’ ‘I don't know how I can leave without another taste --’”

There was a loud knock at the door. Genji was breathless with laughter on the couch, as Jesse had tackled him there, but they both looked up at the sound.

Genji escaped back to the corkboard while Jesse went to answer the door, and the knocking became more insistent when it wasn't immediately opened. Jesse thought it must be his landlord; he didn't know who else would be at his door in such a rush.

He opened the door and slammed it shut on a polished black toe already there to keep the door open.

“Jesse McCree,” muttered Hanzo, “I believe you have something of mine.”

Jesse held the door at bay against Hanzo's efforts to open it.

“How’d you know where I live?” he asked, and Hanzo dug out a wallet from the breast pocket of his suit, tossing it at Jesse to catch. He took the opportunity while Jesse fumbled to grab it to shove his way in. When Genji saw Hanzo, all mirth drained from his eyes and he scrambled from the couch to back away into Jesse’s room, slamming the door.

“Genji!” Hanzo yelled.

“I don't want to go back!” Genji whined. “I'm having too much fun!”

Jesse retreated to the kitchen as the brother's fight dived into Japanese, hoping that if Hanzo didn't see him he’d leave without confrontation. His hopes were vanished as he heard Hanzo shout his name, and he rounded the corner to glare at Jesse.

“Are you trying to ruin my life?”

Jesse gritted his teeth. “I should be asking you that.”

“Who are you? What do you want with Genji? Have you been following us?”

Jesse backed away as Hanzo advanced with an accusatory finger waving at his nose.

“Hell, no! What do you take me for -”

“You leave me and my brother alone or I will make you regret saving my life,” Hanzo said, and turned to stomp away. He had one final warning for Genji, still barricaded in Jesse's room before he slammed the front door behind him.

Jesse sighed in relief and came back to the living room to see Genji peeking out the door at him.

“Is he gone?”

Jesse debated kicking the kid out now before his brother came back with his sour faced assistant, but then he remembered what a rude shit Hanzo was, and decided he could handle a little strong arming if it meant protecting Genji from his overbearing brother.

He smiled and gestured for Genji to come out. “Yeah, he's gone. Not sure for how long, though.”

Genji obliged and slumped onto the couch with a sigh. “Sorry about that. My family is really uptight.”

“Speaking of,” Jesse said, sitting down beside him. “Who are you? Is your family important or something?”

Genji barked a laugh and pulled out his phone. “Yeah, you could say that. I can trust you, right?”

Jesse nodded.

“Good. If you meant any harm, you would've done something already, so I don't mind telling you this.”

He typed something up on his phone and angled it for Jesse to see. A picture of Genji, Hanzo, and an older couple that must have been their parents filled up the screen. They were all standing on a stage while the older man spoke into a bouquet of microphones.

Jesse frowned. “What am I looking at here?”

Genji tapped at the crest on the podium of two dragon heads forming a circle, eating each other's tails. “Shimada? Don't tell me you don't know the Shimada clan. We're a big deal in Japan.”

But Jesse did know. He grabbed the phone, staring at the unmistakable faces of Hanzo and Genji.

“You don't happen to be in the business of hotels, do you?” he choked out.

Genji rolled his eyes. “What else?”

Jesse shook his head to clear his mind. “What hotel did you say you and your brother were staying at?”

Genji tapped his chin and looked at the ceiling. “Hmm, I don't remember. Some sort of medical name? The Surgeon, or something like that.”

Jesse looked at the notes pinned to his cork board, and the icy feeling of realisation crept up his spine.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”


	4. Chapter 4

Room 1123 

“I'd like to meet the chef,” Hanzo said.

Clarence smiled wide and nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, sir. I'm sure he’d be happy to.”

Ten minutes passed while Hanzo enjoyed his golden cook’s latest dish of lamb chop dusted with matcha powder. The server returned with a dismally changed expression.

“Unfortunately the chef is unavailable at this time.”

Hanzo stopped with fork halfway to his mouth. He put down the bite and steepled his fingers, glaring at Clarence darkly. “Why?”

Clarence sweat under the intensity of his gaze. “He was feeling a bit ill. I'm sure he’ll be up to meeting tomorrow.”

Hanzo excused the server gruffly and poked at his food, finding his appetite lost despite the perfect dish. His father was growing more impatient each day he spent in Austin, and Hanzo was finding it more difficult to keep coming up with excuses to stay. He couldn't exactly admit to his father the true reason he had extended his stay was because of one cook. His father would point at his retinue of personal chefs back home and mock him, but Hanzo couldn't help himself. So rare were good cooks that to just leave without even meeting the man seemed a waste.

The next day he ordered a “place.” What arrived was an oval plate, with juicy red strips of charred sirloin underneath a vibrant purple coleslaw, with fine strips of carrot artfully placed within the cabbage. Hanzo saw the place the cook was describing immediately: Austin. It was known as the City of the Violet crown, and the chef had made a perfect representation of the skyline in the twilight hours. And, of course, it was delicious, with subtle hints of rosemary and dijon. Hanzo didn’t even like coleslaw, but he ate it all. Afterwards, he practically ordered the server to bring the chef to him at once, but he was refused again.

“Now this is just getting ridiculous,” he said to Kane. “Does he have no idea who I am?”

“Maybe not,” replied Kane. “We didn't reveal your identity to the staff.”

“Well, maybe that's the problem. He must think I'm just another privileged guest who’s been sending back so many dishes…” Hanzo clapped a hand to his mouth. “Does he think I'm just a spoiled guest?”

Kane shook his head violently, laughing as if it were a ridiculous joke. “He must have some idea of your prestige-”

“So he doesn't know!” Hanzo put his head in his hands. “He thinks I'm an asshole.”

Kane chose not to say anything.

Hanzo sat up, his pride fighting down his misery. “I’ll go to him myself.”

Kane tried to stop Hanzo as he tossed his napkin onto the table and stood, buttoning his suit and making for the door.

“But, sir, we have a meeting-”

“It can wait,” Hanzo declared, making his determined way to the Sturgeon Kitchen.

 

Sturgeon Kitchen

“He’s coming!”

This warning was shouted suddenly into the busy kitchen, confusing everyone but Jesse. He understood immediately.

“What, now?” he cried.

Clarence nodded, breathless from fast walking all the way from the elevators.

Jesse wasted no time. He abandoned the sauce he was making and rushed to the back.

Hanzo burst in, calm and confident as if he already owned the place.

Jean had the sense to quickly snap at the rest to stand at attention, and rushed over to greet Hanzo with a warm smile.

“Ah, Mr. Shimada, so good to see you. What brings you here?”

Hanzo ignored him in lieu of searching the faces of the cooks. “Where is he?” he asked.

Clarence rushed up beside Hanzo with a plastered on smile. “Can I get you a drink, sir?”

Hanzo ignored him, too. He began pacing along the line of cooks, inspecting their stations until he came upon one that was abandoned. A pot was simmering, the decadent scent of herbs wafting from it.

He turned on Jean and Clarence and asked again, pointing at the pot, “Where is he?”

Jean frowned in confusion. “Him? I don't know. Hey, where’s Jes -”

“He felt sick and went home!” Clarence quickly interrupted.

Jean’s scowl deepened. “He did? I didn't give him permission -”

Hanzo tossed his hand in exasperation. “Nevermind.”

He turned to leave when he heard a clatter of silverware from the back followed by a voice quietly say, “Shit!”

He stopped and turned towards the back, a suspicious feeling overtaking him. He ignored Clarence’s desperate attempt to distract him and Jean’s indignant huff as he pushed past him to go into the back room. It was empty except for spices and produce lined up on the shelves, but he was just in time to see the backdoor exit shut close. He jogged to open it and looked around desperately, seeing only a woman throwing trash bags into the dumpster. He knew the chef was still nearby, though, he just had to be. He ran, looking around desperately until he spotted a man walking away. He ran up behind him and grabbed his shoulder to turn him around, and flinched back when he saw their face. Jesse McCree looked back in horror, breathing hard and clutching a cigarette.

“You?” Hanzo spat.

Jesse gulped.

“Are you stalking me?”

Jesse blinked before an annoyed scowl took over. “You, bastard… scared the shit out of me.”

“So you admit it.”

“Wha - no! Why the hell would you think that?”

“Then what are you doing here. Outside _my_ hotel?”

Jesse looked up at the building beside them like he was surprised to see it. “Oh, is that yours? I didn't know. I was just taking a walk.”

Hanzo’s glare was unrelenting, but Jesse looked away to avoid his scathing eyes. He looked up and down at Jesse, noting his scuffed shoes under pants too big, and a stained white t-shirt. Disgusting.

He stepped up close to Jesse, trying to make up for the height difference by being as intimidating as he could. “Now you listen carefully,” he began, but something caught his nose. The smell was familiar, achingly so, and his eyes landed on a particular stain on Jesse’s shirt.

“What are you doing -” Jesse began, but Hanzo silenced him with a look.

“Stay still,” he said, and leaned in to take a deep breath of Jesse’s shirt. Jesse could do nothing but stand there stiffly as Hanzo inhaled, bewilderment accompanying his fear. Hanzo stepped back looking shocked.

“You…” he said, raising a finger.

Jesse gulped, his hand rising to the dark purple stain on his shirt.

“You… are a disgusting man.” He flicked at Jesse’s shirt. “You can't even eat properly?”

Jesse glanced at his shirt and laughed without smiling. “Yeah, whoops, should’a worn a bib.”

Hanzo sneered and turned away. “Stay away from me, Jesse McCree,” he said before storming away.

Jesse waited until he had turned the corner before letting go of the breath he’d been holding. He really thought he’d been had, and thanked God or whatever benevolent spirits were protecting him. He looked at the burnt out cigarette between his fingers and sighed, tossing it into a trashcan before wondering how he’d face Jean.

 

Hanzo stopped once he turned the corner and froze. There, tucked in between the bushes, was a white jacket. He pulled it out and shook it open. The Sturgeon logo was printed on the left side of the double breasted jacket, and a purple stain splotched the spot right below the collar. He brought it to his nose and inhaled.

“No,” he decided, tossing the coat back in the bushes and walking off. It must belong to someone else, he told himself. He walked back through the kitchen, too wrapped up in his thoughts to pay attention to whatever Jean was saying. He walked up to his room, ignoring Kane as he hopped up from his spot slouched in the armchair. He walked up to the empty dish still left on his table and brought it to his nose. Purple cabbage dripped onto his shirt, but he barely noticed as he inhaled the scent of rosemary and dijon.

 

Sturgeon Kitchen

Jesse returned to work to face Jean’s wrath, which was mercifully brief since the dinner rush had started. The night went quickly with Jesse’s mind on Hanzo, but as he was getting ready to leave, another order from 1123 came in. Jesse sighed and begrudgingly read it, wondering what fresh idea he had today.

“Cake?” he murmured aloud. That would take half the night.

Wondering if 1123 was mad at him, he dejectedly tied the bandana back around his head and got to work, vowing to make the best damn cake of his life.

The time passing by felt peaceful. It was well after everyone had left, and Jean let him stay as long as he cleaned up after himself. Jesse had never been alone in this kitchen, and he found the echo of the empty pots and pans unnerving, so he pulled out the old radio from the shelf and fiddled with it until it landed on a country station playing a crackling old ballad. Soon the familiar action of baking lulled him into a trance and he found he didn't mind how late it was. The twanging notes of guitar set him swaying where he stood, quietly humming along as he whisked eggs and sifted flour.

His mind wandered in this meditative state to the Shimada brothers and how to get rid of them. Genji had left after lunch to go beg forgiveness of his brother, but he had been back the next morning with coffee and treats for Boss. Hanzo hadn't returned to his apartment, thankfully, but the close call at work had left him quivering. He knew it was stupid to hide. Any hopes he had of a quick promotion was gone either way. If Hanzo found out who he was then he’d likely fire him, yet if he never met Jesse properly, he’d leave Austin and Jesse would return to his uneventful life of enduring the grind. Maybe that was for the best, he thought sadly.

Jesse shook his head to clear the unpleasant thoughts from his mind and focused on what flavour to make the icing. He had already used his famous icing on the cupcakes, so he decided to go for a citrus and green tea combo that he was positive would be excellent. He turned around to grab the zester and froze.

Hanzo stood leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. He had been watching for God knew how long, and smirked dangerously when their eyes finally met.

“Wh- What the hell? Why are you-” he stuttered, but Hanzo interrupted him by raising a hand.

“Enough, Mr. McCree. You have been found out.”

Jesse gulped and tried to look him in the eyes, but guilt made him look away.

“You don't seem very surprised to see me,” Hanzo said. “How long have you known?”

Jesse briefly considered making a run for it, but Hanzo was blocking the exit. “Since you came to my apartment,” Jesse said, rubbing the back of his head. “Genji told me.”

Hanzo scoffed. “Of course he did. And why did you run away when I wanted to meet you?”

“Ain't that obvious?”

Hanzo merely gave him a condescending look. “No, it isn't.”

“I didn't want to get fired, of course,” he muttered.

Hanzo looked genuinely shocked. “You thought I would do that? Why?”

Jesse was so flustered and confused that he spent a moment stammering before he blurted out, “‘Cause you hate me!”

Hanzo nodded as if in agreement. “We don't get along, true, but I don't hate you. In fact, knowing who you are makes me rethink my original opinion of you. You are the one who's been cooking for me all this time, yes?”

Jesse nodded.

Hanzo’s eyes glinted in a way Jesse couldn't understand. He tapped his fingers against his mouth, looking at the mixer slowly churning behind Jesse.

Jesse shifted uncomfortably. “So… I'm not fired?”

Hanzo scoffed again and waved a dismissive hand. “Continue what you were doing,” he said. “Pretend I'm not here.”

Jesse had to look back to remember what he was doing. He was all too happy to get back to it so he could leave, and quickly ran about to gather the last of his ingredients. Hanzo walked around the table to watch him work, which Jesse did his best to ignore.

Every so often Hanzo would interrupt him to ask, “Why are you doing that?” and Jesse would explain, afraid that he was doing something wrong and Hanzo would make him start over. But he simply hummed in response and gestured for Jesse to continue, walking around to the other side and peering into the mixture with nothing more sinister than curiosity. Jesse didn't trust this one bit. He wasn't sure Hanzo was a good person, and he wouldn't be surprised if this was all an elaborate set up to get back at him somehow. He wondered if Jean was waiting in the closet to jump out and shout “You're fired!” while Hanzo shoved the cake in his face.

He started on the icing while the cake was in the oven, and Hanzo watched closely, expression inscrutable even as he questioned almost all of Jesse's methods. He was blessedly silent while Jesse iced, likely understanding that a good job needed utmost concentration, and when it was finally finished Jesse pushed it unceremoniously towards Hanzo, sucking a spot of pale green icing off his hand.

Hanzo looked at him uncertainty. “This is it?”

Jesse scowled and turned away to begin cleaning up. “Yep, that's it.”

Hanzo realized he had offended Jesse and scowled in return. “I only meant - there's hardly any icing,” he gestured at the delicate green swirls. “I thought Americans were all about thick icing on cake.”

Jesse dumped his bowls into the sink loudly before replying, “Well, the flavour ain't in the icing for this one.”

Did Hanzo actually look excited? Jesse chalked it up to bad lighting and started hosing down his batter covered tools. Hanzo went away to search for a knife and a plate, and returned to gently cut a slice and carefully slide it onto his plate. He realized he’d forgotten a fork and went to search for that, too. Jesse was doing his best to ignore him but, as always, the suspense of his reaction drew him in and he found himself glancing over more than he’d have liked.

Hanzo, meanwhile, had found a spoon and was raising a bite to his mouth. Jesse had to look away; he found he couldn't bare to watch Hanzo spit it out. Hanzo was unfortunately silent as he chewed, and Jesse determined himself to focus on cleaning up, but when he happened to turn around to grab the piping bag left on the counter, he stopped in surprise. Hanzo was standing at the table with one arm leaning on the metal countertop, looking more relaxed than Jesse had ever seen. He had already finished half the cake, but he was chewing ever so slowly, with his eyes closed and a mild look of concentration on his face. Jesse watched until he swallowed and opened his eyes to pick up another bite, and then watched him repeat the strange method of closing his eyes and popping the cake in, chewing slowly and deliberately as if he were trying to guess how many grains of sugar Jesse had put in.

Unable to wait any longer, Jesse cleared his throat, and Hanzo jumped, looking slightly embarrassed.

Jesse tried to sound casual as he asked, “So, do you like it?”

Hanzo blinked and coughed. “It's a very interesting combination.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow and turned away. “Your notes had much nicer things to say. Maybe you should write down what you _really_ feel.”

He glanced back to see Hanzo flushing with embarrassment, and chuckled to himself, turning back to the sink. He finished the cleaning quickly after that, but when he turned around again, Hanzo and the cake were gone. All that was left was a note lying on the table, written on one of the back of one of the kitchen's order sheets. He picked it up, feeling a bubbly feeling in his stomach as he read the familiar handwriting. _“It was delicious,”_ was all it said.


	5. Chapter 5

Jesse called in sick the next day. Hanzo stormed down to the kitchen, not believing the server after he’d been the one to hide Jesse the first time, but sure enough the cook was nowhere in sight. Hanzo looked at the meal he’d had to settle for, made by Not Jesse which appeared to be an eggs benedict. The thing was drowned in hollandaise, and strangely sweet. He abandoned it where it sat and stood, grabbing his coat as he made his way to the door. Kane shot up and was jogging along behind as he stormed down the hall. 

“Sir, where are you going? Mrs. Helichs is going to be here soon!”

Hanzo scoffed at the mention of the young heiress trying to seduce him. “Tell her something came up.”

Kane did his best to rush ahead of Hanzo and grab each door, but soon Hanzo became impatient and pushed his own way through. 

“Please, sir, where are you going?”

Hanzo said nothing as they sprinted down the stairs to the parking garage. They arrived at the car and Hanzo held out an expectant hand. 

“Keys,” he ordered, and after Kane resisted for a bewildered moment, Hanzo simply grabbed them and climbed in the driver's side. 

He arrived at Jesse's apartment soon after and slammed the car door, storming up the steps to arrive at apartment 609. He stopped to catch his breath - he really shouldn't have been in such a rush - and smoothed back his hair before knocking. 

He could hear a radio blaring country music inside over two muffled voices. Did Jesse have company? He started to feel unsure about being there, but then the door opened and Hanzo was just in time to stick his foot in the crack before it closed on him. He grimaced in pain and looked expectantly at Jesse’s face staring at him in horror. 

“Do you mind?” he said, and Jesse reluctantly opened the door the rest of the way. Hanzo pushed past him to see Genji’s green head fly into another room, slamming the door behind him. Hanzo would have to sort him out later.

“So you're sick?” Hanzo asked as he looked around Jesse's apartment curiously. Jesse trailed behind him looking frightened, as if he thought Hanzo would start breaking shit any second. 

“Is that why you're here? To check in on my health?”

Hanzo had entered the kitchen and found a small round table loaded with an abandoned breakfast. There were pancakes, bacon, boiled eggs, a jug of juice and coffee in a metal pot next to sugar and cream. Hanzo grabbed a dish and cutlery from the dish rack next to the sink and sat down.

Jesse watched him without questioning, the desire to impress with his cooking overcoming his indignation at the intrusion. Hanzo loaded his plate carefully, arranging his pancakes and eggs around each other and the fruit fanning the edges until it looked symmetrical and balanced, then he cut a bite of pancakes and began to eat. It was perfect, as always.

Jesse was wondering if it was okay to sit when he heard Genji going “Psst!” from the living room. 

“Is he gone?” he asked from the cover of the doorframe. 

Jesse shook his head. “He’s eating.”

Genji looked shocked and pushed past Jesse to see for himself. “Brother! You know Jesse made that, right? It's probably from a box!”

Hanzo glared at Genji and swallowed his bite before replying, “It is not from a box.”

Genji looked at Jesse for confirmation. “I haven't cooked from a box in years.”

Hanzo tried his best to ignore Genji as he sat in the chair across, at ease now that he saw Hanzo wasn't there to yell at him. 

“Wow. You should be honoured, Jesse. My brother never eats anything unless it's made by a master chef.”

Hanzo slammed his fist on the table, making the other two jump. “Shut up, Genji. I'm trying to eat.”

Genji clammed up and resigned himself to finishing his plate as well, but it didn't take long after Jesse sat down for him to start talking again. 

“You really made these from scratch? They're so good!”

Jesse was hardly listening; all his attention was on Hanzo, who seemed to be enjoying himself. He couldn't help note that Hanzo was dressed unusually casual, wearing a black long sleeve over slim sweatpants. The clothing still looked expensive and like it just came off the rack, but it was totally unlike the white button ups and slacks he usually wore. He looked a bit more human this way. 

Genji snapped to get Jesse’s attention. “Hello,” he called.

“What?” Jesse asked. “I wasn't listening.”

“He asked what you do for work,” Hanzo filled in without looking up. 

Jesse looked between the two uncomfortably. “I'm a chef.” 

“Really?” Genji exclaimed. “Wow! Now it all makes sense. Hanzo, you should hire Jesse! You like his cooking, yeah?”

Hanzo and Jesse’s tense silence was plowed over by Genji. “Anyway, I have to go. Thanks for breakfast!”

Hanzo carefully put down his fork and knife as Genji stood and dumped his plate in the sink. “Where do you think you're going?”

Genji froze mid-step and glanced back at Hanzo, who had a deathly glare trained on him already. Hanzo barely had his mouth open to fling out a threat before Genji ran for it, leaving the door swinging open behind him as he tore down the hall. Hanzo jumped to his feet and stormed after him, yelling, “You're going on the plane home tonight! You better be there!” He slammed the door shut and stomped back to his seat, angrily picking up his utensils and jamming the last few pieces of pancake into his mouth. 

Jesse was sitting back in the chair with his back to the window, arms crossed as he watched the show. He gave Hanzo a look when the man finally deigned to look up at him. “So. Just here for breakfast?”

Hanzo flushed and took a sip of juice to cover his face. “The other cooks in the Sturgeon kitchen are terrible. I'd rather not starve, if you don't mind.”

Jesse hummed and picked up his mug of coffee. “Why do you like my cooking so much?” 

Hanzo had never thought of it. “You are always precise with your ingredients. Cooking is a math, of course, and some people add too much or too little. Exactness is key with cooking.”

Jesse raised his eyebrows. “But I don't really measure. I might use a spoon or a big cup, but I’ve gotten pretty good at eyeing things. 

Hanzo started and looked at Jesse in shock. “Then it must be that. You must have had premium training to get to your level?”

Jesse shook his head. “No, I never went to culinary school. I learned by doing, and I've been working in kitchens since I was a kid.”

Hanzo searched his brain for a reason, any reason, that an untrained cook from America could create dishes that satisfied his specific palate, but he could find nothing. He wondered if there was something wrong with his tongue?

Jesse sighed seeing he wasn't going to get a proper answer out of Hanzo and picked up his own fork, prodding at his own cold plate of breakfast. 

Hanzo cleared his throat and stood. “Thank you for breakfast,” he said, ignoring Jesse’s smirk. “I won't tell your superiors about your dishonesty, but I’ll be expecting you there tomorrow.”

Jesse rubbed his throat and coughed. “I don't know, chief, I'm still feeling pretty sick.”

Hanzo scowled, turning to the door and almost tripping on a huge grey thing. The thing lifted it's head and cast bloodshot eyes at Hanzo, then sniffed his pant leg. Hanzo hurriedly stepped away from the dog and with one last bewildered look around the apartment, left. 

 

Jesse called in sick the next day as well. He expected to have Hanzo banging at his door again, but as the day went on there was no sign of him. Not even Genji had appeared to pester Jesse about getting drinks again, which led Jesse to wonder if he really had been flown home. He hoped not; as loud as the kid was, it was nice having such positive energy around.

He tried to enjoy his sick day despite thoughts of the Shimada brothers swimming around his head all day. He took Boss to the dog park and let him run around, then to the groomers for a nail cut and a bath, then to the pet store to stock up on food. By the time he got home it was 6 PM and all his time and energy he was hoping to have for grocery shopping was drained out of him like a rag squeezed dry. He decided to raid his cupboards and fridge for a makeshift supper; he was a talented chef, after all. He’d pretend he was on Chopped and make a spectacular meal from only a few ingredients. 

He sat down on the couch with his food and flicked on the TV when there was a knock at the door. His heart leapt straight to his throat as he stood to answer. Hanzo stood impatiently outside holding two plastic grocery bags. He shoved them into Jesse's hands and pushed past him, head high like he owned the place. 

Jesse kicked the door shut, peering curiously into the bags. A beautiful salmon was wrapped in shrink wrap among an assortment of veggies. 

“Let me guess: you’re hungry.”

Hanzo cleared his throat, looking around at the apartment, anywhere but at Jesse. “You’re still sick?”

Jesse coughed and brought the bags into the kitchen instead of responding. “What would you like me to make, then?”

“Surprise me,” said Hanzo, picking up Jesse’s abandoned supper from the coffee table. “Were you going to eat this?”

Jesse stuck his head out to see Hanzo holding his plate of saltines topped with cream cheese and canned tuna. 

“Yeah?”

Hanzo dropped the plate with disgust and followed Jesse into the kitchen. “A chef with skills like yours, eating like you’re trying to survive the apocalypse? Seems a waste.”

“Well, not all of us have the luxury of fine dining every night.” 

“True,” responded Hanzo as he rounded the counter, thoughtfully picking up Jesse’s custom horse head bottle opener from where it lay on the counter and raising an eyebrow at Jesse in question.

“It was a gift,” he said.

Hanzo nodded and went looking around the kitchen while Jesse unloaded the bags onto the countertop. Eventually Hanzo gave up his pretense and settled against the counter, watching Jesse prepare the ingredients, trying to guess what he was making. Jesse bore his eyes as long as he could until it became too distracting and he turned on Hanzo, pointing his knife at him. 

“Can I cook in peace? I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

Hanzo blinked in surprise, but slunk to the living room where the TV was muted on an old cowboy film Hanzo had never seen before. He picked up the remote from the couch and turned it up until he could hear the crackle of the old men’s voices, talking in accents too thick for him to understand. Jesse had turned on a radio in the kitchen, predictably playing old country songs, so Hanzo could only assume he didn't mind his snooping around the apartment. He picked up a book from the coffee table, folded in on itself to the last chapter; the pages didn’t even try to fold back the way they were meant to, they had been open like that so long. Hanzo wondered if Jesse couldn’t bring himself to finish the story or if he had just forgotten about it. He turned and remembered unhappily Jesse’s huge bulldog, staring at him from it’s raggedy old bed. The brute was slobbering all over its paws, but when Hanzo looked at it, he pulled himself up and waddled over to him, putting an inquisitive snout to his hand. Hanzo pulled away quickly.

“Can’t you put the dog outside?” he called to Jesse.

“Oh no!” Jesse cried, and came quickly into the living room. “Is he bothering you?”

“Well, no, but—” Hanzo began, but Jesse crouched next to the dog, rubbing his head affectionately. 

“Don’t worry,” Jesse said soothingly. “He’s just here for supper, then he’ll get out of your hair.” Hanzo sneered at Jesse’s coy smile, but Jesse was already leading the dog into the kitchen. 

“Wash your hands!” Hanzo called after them, but Jesse just waved in response. 

Hanzo wiped the slight trace of slobber the dog had left on his hand against Jesse’s couch, and proceeded his investigation of the apartment. There were few personal touches, aside from an old cowboy movie poster and a cork board almost falling off the wall, so weighed down with push pins and papers as it was. He looked curiously at the old pictures, not paying attention to anyone in the photos aside from Jesse. He didn’t look much changed from when he was younger, except for the fuller facial hair and perhaps a little more fat around the middle. Hanzo was rather shocked to see a photo of Jesse—shirtless—posing in front of the ocean with a much younger bulldog. It took him a while to move past that particular piece, but something familiar near the bottom caught his eye: notepaper from the Sturgeon. Hanzo recognized his own handwriting at once. All the little notes he’d written were pinned up, some even covering old pictures to allow for the lack of space. He read his own words in horror—he’d never be so generous with his compliments if he’d known who was receiving them—but a pleased feeling fought its way up his spine at the thought of Jesse pinning them up in place of honour among all his memories.

Hanzo was considering whether or not it was worth it to sneak into Jesse’s room when he called him to come eat. Hanzo could hardly wait, but he tried to hide his eagerness as he sauntered back into the kitchen, where Jesse was putting plates down on the little table. When he saw Hanzo, he bowed with a flourish towards the food. “Bon appetit.”

Hanzo could smell how good it would taste already, and sat unceremoniously, tugging his own handkerchief out to place on his lap. It was only when Jesse sat across from him that he hesitated.

“You aren’t going to eat with me?” he said. 

Jesse blinked at him in surprise. “Why not?”

Hanzo’s lips tightened; this conversation rarely went over well. 

“I do not eat with others.” 

Jesse frowned at him. “Why?”

Hanzo clenched his fork and knife in frustration, looking for words that wouldn’t unnecessarily offend his chef. “It’s… too intimate. And I hate the sound of people chewing.”

“What, even your family?”

“That’s different.”

Jesse hummed and pushed himself back to his feet, walking over to the kitchen counter where his little radio was still crackling out country music. He grabbed it and turned it up as he came back, until it was blaring so loud throughout the kitchen that the speakers vibrated. 

“There!” Jesse said loudly enough to be heard. “Now you can pretend like I ain’t even here.”

Hanzo cringed at the song, but he begrudgingly allowed it and cut his first bite of salmon, and suddenly all he could think about was the food. It was perfect in every way, from the taste to the texture; even the plating was beautifully arranged. He even forgot Jesse was across from him until he saw him watching carefully for his reaction. Hanzo hoped he hadn’t been making any strange faces and looked away. 

Jesse bit his cheek and took a bite of his own food, and finding it satisfactory, ate in silence. Hanzo noticed that his legs were spread so wide on his chair that his legs were almost as wide as the table, and he was tapping his foot along with the music coming out of the tinny speakers. Hanzo, of course, didn’t recognize it, but he got the idea that it was a sappy love song, though the singer was slurring so terribly that he hardly understood it.

Hanzo was considering the dill in the sauce when a sense memory struck suddenly. He’d eaten this before, and not long ago. He frowned at the food, trying to remember, when he realized.

“You’ve made this before,” he said.

Jesse looked up at him and reached to turn down the radio. “What was that?”

“This dish, I’ve had it before. It’s from the Sturgeon’s menu, isn’t it?”

Jesse bit his lip and nodded. “Thought you wouldn’t notice.”

Hanzo looked at the plate and remembered the same dish, served to him during his first day in Austin. He should have known Jesse made the only dish from that mess that was even halfway decent, and he’d only done the sauce. 

“Were you trying to tell me something by making this?” he asked.

Jesse licked his lips nervously. “Well, I don’t know. It’s good right?”

Hanzo nodded, still staring carefully at Jesse.

“I just—everyone thinks that if you buy the hotel, you’ll replace all the staff.”

Hanzo didn’t respond. 

“I just thought you might change your perspective if you saw how good the food could be.” Jesse rubbed his neck, looking away. “They’re good people, and they can be really good cooks, too. They just need a push in the right direction.”

“What do you think is wrong with your kitchen?” Hanzo asked, putting down his knife and fork.

Jesse sighed as he thought. What wasn’t wrong with it? Jean was borderline abusive, the competitive atmosphere between cooks vying for a promotion got in the way nearly every night, their ingredients were getting cheaper and poorer by the week. “They feel a lot of pressure since the hotel ain’t doing so well these days. You can’t cook good food like that; it’s just a fact.”

Hanzo waved his hand at that. “Skill, once learned, is hard to lose, no matter what environment you’re put in. Anyways, you shouldn’t worry. No matter what happens, you’ll be safe.”

Jesse didn’t know what to say. He thought of Laurie’s suspicious glares, of Clarence’s nervous fluttering, of Jean’s rare bursts of approval that came with a hard thump on the back; he couldn’t help feeling like he was betraying them just by sitting with the man who threatened their livelihoods. 

Hanzo had finished eating, and was wiping his mouth carefully. “Thank you for supper,” he said.

“You’re leavin’?” Jesse asked as Hanzo stood. 

“It is late.” 

“Right.” Jesse stood and followed Hanzo to the door, awkward and uncertain.

“You will be back tomorrow, I presume?”

Jesse grinned. “Nope. Got a day off.”

Hanzo scoffed, shrugging his blazer back on. 

“You know,” Jesse couldn’t believe he was about to say this, “you could come back tomorrow night. It’s nice, cooking for people. If you want.”

Hanzo looked around the apartment, as if considering it’s ambience, before nodding. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

Jesse laughed, startling Hanzo a bit; he’d never heard him laugh before. It was loud and sudden, like unexpected thunder. 

“I didn't realize you were the type to worry about troublin’ me,” he said, making Hanzo scowl. 

“You don’t know me at all, Mr. McCree,” Hanzo said. 

Jesse realized this was true. “Just call me Jesse.”

Hanzo blinked, and nodded, turning away. “Good night,” he said, and found he couldn’t bring himself to add the American’s name to the end of that sentence, even though it sat on the tip of his tongue.

“Good night,” Jesse repeated, and stood at the door until he heard the door to the stairway open and close, then he wandered back to the kitchen, feeling light as a dream. 


	6. Chapter 6

The next day went by too slowly. Hanzo had nearly exhausted all the possible work he could be doing in Austin, and had taken to avoiding his father’s phone calls when possible. He spent most of his time on his computer, going over emails or reading articles. He felt terribly useless, to tell the truth. There was so much work he should be doing in other cities, and as much as he tried, a lot of it had to be done face to face. 

There’s no helping it, he told himself. Genji’s still here, and who could expect a 22 year old to get by on his own in a strange city? He ignored his inner voice telling him what a poor excuse that was, but he refused to acknowledge the real reason he stayed.

Genji had, of course, not shown up to the airport and had missed his flight back to Japan. Hanzo honestly didn't see what he found to do in Austin, but the last time he’d seen him he’d been wearing a stetson, cowboy boots, and a huge belt buckle. He could only assume he was immersing himself in the American lifestyle as deeply as possible, however uninviting a thought that was to Hanzo. He found it all so stifling.

Hanzo glared impatiently at his watch. 2:30. It had felt like the day had been much, much longer than that. He wondered if Jesse would mind him arriving early?

Before he knew it he was sitting outside Jesse’s apartment, gripping the wheel and staring at the clock. The minutes ticked by, slowly, slowly, until finally it was three. He got out and walked purposefully up to the front door, but before he could pull it open an old woman pushed through. He stepped aside to let her pass, but she startled at the sight of him and glared up at him accusingly. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, clutching the handle as if she could hit him over the head with the door. 

Hanzo was just wondering the same thing. “I’m visiting an acquaintance,” he said haltingly.

“Hmm? I’ve never seen you around here before, now have I? Who are you visiting, then? Hurry up, I don’t got all day.”

Hanzo scowled and looked at the woman properly. She was small and feeble, bent over the little white clutch in her hands, but her face was as wrinkled and creased with as much anger as age. 

“Jesse McCree,” Hanzo said at length, but at the mention of his name her face broke like a stormcloud to the sun.

“Ohh, Jesse, huh?” Suspicion darkened her eyes again at a sudden thought. “You aren’t here to cause him any trouble, are ya?”

Hanzo shook his head, and she smiled again, genial and matronly as if she’d never threatened anyone in her life. “Well that’s good. He doesn’t get many visitors these days,” she patted his arm. Hanzo tried not to look uncomfortable.

“Yes, well,” he muttered, looking away towards the apartment foyer. “I really should be—”

“Oh, nonsense! Come talk with me a bit; Jesse can wait.” 

Hanzo tried to protest, but she grabbed his arm and was walking him back down the stairs before he could get a word in edgewise. 

“I try to walk every day, but it gets so hard with this damn heat! Don’t know why I live somewhere so hot. And I don’t know how men like you can go around in suits like that all day!”

Hanzo cleared his throat, tugging at his collar discreetly. “It isn’t very pleasant,” he agreed.

“Oh, but when you build roots somewhere, the sun could fall on you and you wouldn’t know how to move! Don’t you think?”

Hanzo glanced back at the apartment and sighed. He was ridiculously early anyway; spending a little time with this strange woman shouldn’t be an issue. 

“I have no roots, so I can’t say.”

“What, not even with little Jesse?” Her coy smile made him flush. 

“He is just an acquaintance. A work acquaintance.” 

The old woman poked his ribs in an overly familiar way. “He’s a cutie, though, don’t you think? He still won’t settle down, no matter how many nice girls I introduce him to. You don’t think he might be…?”

Hanzo blanched but refused to help finish the thought. 

“Oh, I’m just teasing you! Is that suit made of cardboard? You’re too stiff!”

Hanzo cleared his throat and put a gentle hand on hers, intending to push her away and excuse himself, when a familiar voice caught their attention.

“Hey, you!”

_ Thank god, I’m saved,  _ thought Hanzo, then he saw Jesse. His hair was tied up behind his head so that it stuck up like a palm tree, and he was practically steaming with sweat. Hanzo would have found that unpleasant, but Jesse happened to be wearing a shirt about three sizes too big for him, and it hung distractingly low over his chest, revealing his collarbones and just enough skin to show Hanzo the impression of a tan line, a v-shaped imprint that pointed straight down. Jesse pulled out his earbuds as he came close, hooking the cords behind his neck and beaming a wide lopsided smile at the old woman still hooked on Hanzo’s arm. Two dogs led him towards them, pulling against their leads as if aching to sprint out into the street, but Jesse collected them to his sides with a few words. 

“June, what  _ are  _ you doin’ to this man?” Jesse demanded in mock reproach. 

June batted her free hand at him, scowling. “I was  _ trying  _ to distract him long enough for you to get home and into a shower, but you ruined it! Look at you, a stinking mess. You’re as bad as the dogs.”

Jesse’s smile was fond even as he shook his head. “Sorry ‘bout her; she likes to stick her nose where it don’t belong.”

“You should be thanking me! Don’t know why I ever do anything for you,” June huffed.

Jesse gently removed her hand from Hanzo’s arm and led her a few steps away. “You headed to Esther’s?”

“What else do I got to do but drink?” she grumbled, looking back at Hanzo with a sneer as if were his fault to see Jesse so underdressed.

Jesse chuckled and patted her back. “I’ll put the dogs in and get outta these clothes, don’t worry. Have fun, but not too much, a’right?”

June growled something under her breath but let Jesse peck her cheek and patted one of the dogs heads before shuffling away. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Jesse said. 

Hanzo wondered if the heat was affecting his head somehow. 

“Wanna come in? I didn't expect you so early, though, so the place is kinda…”

“Yes,” Hanzo muttered. “Let’s go in.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow at him but clicked his tongue for the dogs and led them all into the apartment. It was blessedly cool in the old building, and Hanzo felt his head clear a bit as he followed Jesse up the stairs, but before they reached Jesse’s door, he took out his keys and unlocked the room next to his. 

“I’ll just be a sec,” he said to Hanzo before leading the dogs inside and closing the door behind him.

Hanzo stood where he was left, honestly considering leaving then and there, but before he could move Jesse was back sans dogs.

Jesse stopped when he saw Hanzo, standing there stiffer than snake in a mongoose den. He cleared his throat and led the way to room 609. 

“Those, uh, were June’s dogs. I take ‘em out for a run every now and then.”

Hanzo nodded and filed in behind Jesse. 

“She seemed…” Hanzo began, but found the word he was looking for might seem a little rude.

“She’s real sweet,” Jesse supplied. “She comes off a little strong, but she’s a good woman. Pretty nosy, but I shouldn’t complain.”

They walked together from the living room to kitchen like toy robots on a pointless path, until Jesse turned around and leaned his hand against the kitchen counter. 

“Uhh. I don’t have anything prepared. I was gonna go shopping after this, but, well.”

Hanzo put his hands behind his back. “It is my fault. I was too early. I’ll leave now.”

Jesse held out a hand before Hanzo could turn away. “No, no, don’t go. You can… hang around here if you want?”

The bulldog came waddling up from behind just then and stuck a curious wet nose into Hanzo’s ass, causing him to jump and back away. 

Jesse bit his cheek. “Or you can come shopping with me?”

Hanzo sneered down at the dog, wary of another attack. “Yes, I think I’d prefer that.”

Jesse’s blinked at him in surprise. “Really? Oh, well, let me freshen up and we can go.”

He spared no more words—much less bother to drag the bulldog away from Hanzo—before hopping away. 

Hanzo glared down at the dog who had sat itself down and was looking up at him, unblinking. 

“You are the most disgusting dog I’ve ever seen,” Hanzo told it, but it just stuck it’s tongue out and started panting. Thick drool dripped to the floor. 

Hanzo turned away and backed into the living room. It was the same as last time he’d been there, but he idly looked around anyway, picking through the stack of newspapers Jesse must have been collecting for a while, and then to the window where he stuck a finger through the shutters to look at the street below. It wasn’t much of a view, but Hanzo could see there was a patio outside Jesse’s doors. A cactus was the only occupant on the little metal table, and the whole space looked entirely unused, with the chairs still turned upside down against the railing. He turned away and noticed something that entirely escaped his attention the last time he’d gone snooping: a guitar, leaning against the wall behind the couch. He picked it up carefully, surprised at how heavy it was, and ran his fingers over the thick cords. They gently strummed throughout the room and Hanzo clasped his hands over them before they could make any more noise. His eyes were drawn to the base of the instrument where someone had drawn graffiti in Sharpie all over. Words like “miss you” and “love you” were abundant, but the largest signature was simple and striking: J+F, surrounded by a heart. Hanzo raised an eyebrow, curiosity getting the better of him. Hadn’t June said Jesse didn't have a girlfriend?

Hanzo jumped as the door to the bathroom opened unexpectedly, and Jesse walked out, clothes in his arms and nothing but a towel tied around his waist. He paused when he saw Hanzo, but he said nothing and rushed to the next room over, closing the door firmly behind him. Hanzo put the guitar back where he found it and walked slowly back to the kitchen, pretending to examine the spice rack when Jesse walked back in, dressed and clean. He cleared his throat and grabbed his keys from the dish on the counter. 

“Let’s go.”

 

They took Hanzo’s car to the grocery store, even though Jesse protested that it was only a short walk away. Hanzo refused to spend any more time in the Texas heat than necessary, though, and Jesse found himself crammed into the passenger seat, icy cold air conditioning making him shiver as Hanzo looked for parking. 

They entered the store together and Jesse grabbed a cart, looking disdainfully at Hanzo’s stiff and silky demeanor as he looked about the store disapprovingly.

“People are gonna think you’re my bodyguard or something. Take off those sunglasses.”

Hanzo hadn’t even realized they were still on. He tucked them into his pocket with a scowl and looked at Jesse.

“Well? What are we here for?”

Jesse hummed and leaned his elbows against the shopping cart, pushing it lazily down the produce aisle. “What do you want?”

Hanzo’s lips tightened as he tried to think. “Summer?”

Jesse glanced at him in confusion before understanding passed over his face and he looked down the aisle thoughtfully. “Summer, huh? I’ll see what I can do.”

Hanzo followed him, strangely captivated by Jesse’s method of picking vegetables where he squeezed and smelled them, sometimes tossing them in the air as if he were testing their weight.

“This is why I love summer,” Jesse said over the grapes. “Everything just seems fresher.” Hanzo’s eyes widened in alarm when Jesse picked a grape and popped into his mouth. Catching his look, Jesse winked and pushed past, ignoring Hanzo’s worried glance for a store employee. 

“That can’t be allowed,” he said.

Jesse shrugged. “Who’s stopping me?”

Hanzo wondered what he was even doing there; the buzz of the phone in his pocket was going off the whole time, and it took all his willpower to ignore it. They walked around the produce like voyeurs in an art gallery, and when Jesse saw something he needed on the other side of the section, he sent Hanzo over to pick. He’d been forced to come over to him when Hanzo’s indecision over which tomatoes to choose got to be too much. 

“You don’t shop for yourself too much, huh?”

Hanzo huffed as he held out the bag for Jesse to drop tomatoes in. “No. I’m not a chef.”

“You aren’t?” Jesse shot him a disbelieving smile. “With what a picky eater you are, I’d have thunk you might cook for yourself every once in a while.”

“Some things are better left to the professionals.” Hanzo said.

“You probably have a personal chef, huh?”

Hanzo didn't even blink. “Of course.”

Jesse sneered at him. “Of course,” he repeated, and turned away. 

Hanzo frowned; how had he offended the American now? 

“There’s nothing unusual about that,” he said.

Jesse looked at him from the strawberries. “Yeah. There is.”

Hanzo’s lips tightened and he straightened up. “No. There isn’t.”

Jesse chucked a carton of strawberries into the cart carelessly. “Trust me, rich boy, if you have to hire someone to cook for you, then you’re either too rich or too rigid. Food is more than just fuel, but it’s not above a good home-cooked meal. I mean, you’d eat your mom’s cooking even if she were the worst cook in the world, right?”

“My mother has never cooked for me,” Hanzo said. 

“That explains a few things about you,” Jesse murmured. 

Hanzo stopped indignantly, his finger raised and his mouth open to lash back, but Jesse continued down the aisle as if he didn't even notice. Hanzo looked around at the other shoppers, glancing at him curiously, and clenched his fist, rushing after Jesse instead. 

“Food is an art,” he muttered at Jesse. “It has endless possibilities and can nurture the spirit. Why should I choose to settle for less when I have the option of so much better?”

“No, food  _ can  _ be an art, but that ain’t what food is,” Jesse said.

“Then tell me,” Hanzo said, crossing his arms. “What is it?”

Jesse waved his hand vaguely at the supermarket. “You know.”

When Hanzo didn't change his expression or stance, Jesse sighed. “I can’t explain it. You either know or you don’t.”

He kept walking, leaving Hanzo to trail angrily after. How could he know what he didn't know? He’d always thought of food as his thing, something that defined his every day. Whether it be sweet or savoury, he had enjoyed the best of it all, from chefs who not only knew their craft well, but had begun to improve on their knowledge like scholars on ancient teachings. He had dined on matsutake mushrooms in the most underground of private dining rooms, had meditated on steak so tender and flavourful that it was more like fruit than meat, had tasted and tested meals that would only be made once since their ingredients were so hard to come by. He had been courted by many aspiring master chefs to eat at their restaurants simply because of his renown for having a golden palate that could differentiate every ounce of effort put into the food and judge it accordingly. When he approved, they thrived, and when he showed his disdain, they cowered. But how could Jesse know all of this? Hanzo had to remind himself that he wasn’t even a proper chef, with his limited training and disreputable attitude towards fine dining. But imagine if Jesse had been properly trained? He had a natural affinity for flavors, an understanding that went deeper than the skin. Just as Hanzo knew the complexity of taste and texture, Jesse knew of the magic behind it that had always eluded him. He incorporated emotion and meanings into every ingredient while still making everything sing together like instruments of an orchestra. With proper education to back that up, what could he make? Hanzo’s mouth watered at the idea, but he shook the thought away. He still had difficulty differentiating the golden cook who had been inspiring him the past few days from the unfriendly American that he saw in front of him. 

Jesse had led them to the register, and Hanzo stood back while Jesse unloaded the cart onto the vacant looking cashier. When the price popped up, even Hanzo noticed Jesse’s face drop. 

Hanzo pushed past, pulling his wallet out and tapping his card before Jesse could protest. 

“You don’t have to,” he said, but Hanzo stopped him with a look that said, “You know how rich I am, right?” Or maybe that was all in Jesse’s head.

“I should at least buy the ingredients, since you’re cooking for me.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Jesse conceded, and together they carried the bags back to the car. How had they bought so much?

The car had already been brought to what Hanzo must find a nice freezing temperature when they finally climbed back in. 

“Jesus Christ, it’s cold in here. Do you hate the heat or something?”

Hanzo tugged on his collar as he started the engine. “Anyone would find this heat unbearable,” he said.

“Yeah, but that’s summer. There’s nothing like getting in a stuffy car and rolling down the windows and just driving until you’re going so fast that the wind clears it all away. Then it’s perfect.”

Hanzo’s mouth turned at the idea. 

When they arrived back at Jesse’s apartment, he climbed out and held his arms up to the sun with a sigh of relief. “Ahh, warmth! I missed ya.”

Hanzo tsked and got to work unloading the bags from the back, and let Jesse struggle with the doors. He had forgotten how many stairs they had to climb to Jesse’s floor, and by the time they were standing sweating in front of Jesse’s door, the weight of the bags digging into their palms, he was sure Jesse must be thinking differently about good AC. But Jesse just dumped the bags down with relief and grabbed a water from the fridge, drinking half of it in one swallow. 

“Ahh, that’s good. Want one?”

Hanzo accepted the bottle and sipped from it while Jesse put the ingredients on the counter. They had gone a bit overboard in the produce section, it seemed. The counter was a mosaic of fruits and veggies, and Hanzo couldn’t help asking what Jesse was planning. 

“It’s a surprise!” was all Jesse said before he was pushed from the kitchen, but Hanzo wouldn’t have that again. 

“I want to watch,” he insisted. He had to know how Jesse did it. 

Jesse looked at him in exasperation, but didn't try to kick him out again. Hanzo sat at the little table and finally pulled out his phone. Kane, Father, Kane, Kane, Kane, GD Group, Genji, Kane—Hanzo scrolled back up the notifications to do a double take. Genji never called him, so what could be wrong now? Unfortunately the little shit hadn’t bothered to send a text, so Hanzo could only assume he was either in serious trouble, or it whatever he wanted wasn’t that important. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and took a breath before pressing on his name and putting the phone to his ear. It rang once, twice, three times before Genji answered.

“Yo! What’s up?”

Hanzo almost hung up straight away, but he held out. “You called me.”

“Uhhh, no,” Genji laughed. “ _ You  _ called  _ me. _ ”

“Genji.”

“Ahaha, I’m just teasing! Fine, you caught me,” Hanzo didn't see how, “I want to tell you I’m going home! Just like you all keep nagging me to.”

“Good. You have responsibilities, Genji, you can’t just go off partying all the time—”

“Yeah! So, I wanted to ask you a favor. You remember Jesse? That American I was hanging out with?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t bother him anymore, okay? He’s a good guy. He told me all about what happened between you two, and I’m just gonna say it! You’re at fault!”

“Did he tell you everything?” Hanzo glanced at Jesse, who looked back curiously, but he was speaking in Japanese so he wouldn’t be understood.

“Yeah, he did! He saved your life, brother! You can’t pay him back for that with just a little ride home, don’t you know? And what happened at the bar, well, we were both a little drunk, so I’m sure you understand. Did you even give him back his pants? He was so worried about them. Just promise you’ll leave him alone?”

Hanzo traced a stain on the wooden table and held back a smile. “He didn't tell you anything else?”

“Uhh, no? What else is there?”

“Nothing.”

“Just promise me.”

Hanzo sighed loudly into the receiver, as if he really had to consider the request. “Okay, Genji. I won’t bother him.”

“Good! Ah, I’m glad. So, I’m gonna go back with a friend. He has a plane, see, so you don’t have to worry about getting me a ticket. Don’t worry about me anymore! I already booked out of the hotel, so you can finish up there and get on with business.”

Hanzo suspected he was lying about something, but he found it harder to care the longer he knew him. “Okay. Call me when you get back, and call Father right away. He still thinks you’re in Japan, you know?”

“Wow, really? Thanks, bro! I was so worried how I’d explain all this to him. Okay, well, I gotta go, so talk to you soon. Bye!”

The line went dead before Hanzo could say anything else. He put it away with a tired sigh and turned his attention back to Jesse, who he saw was watching him with a curious look. 

“Was that Genji?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Hanzo said, shrugging off his jacket. Even inside it was too hot. “He says he’s going back to Japan.”

Jesse blinked. “Really? That’s strange. I thought he wanted to stay a bit longer.”

Hanzo shrugged and stood to look at what Jesse was cutting. “He’s very impulsive; maybe he got bored.”

Jesse looked to the side, but didn't say anything. 

“So what is this?” Hanzo cast his eyes over the assortment of fruits Jesse was cutting up.

“Can’t you tell?” Jesse said. At Hanzo’s deadpan look he shot him a wink. “Tell ya what: if you guess before I plate, you get a prize.”

Hanzo pressed his lips together, but determined he’d guess if it killed him. He shot off random dishes, but Jesse shook his head over and over again. 

“You’re gettin’ warmer,” he said coyly.

Hanzo scowled and studied the ingredients, but he kept getting distracted by Jesse’s style. He handled the knife like an extension of his arm, chopping everything with near robotic uniformity, smirking and chatting all the while. He had turned his little radio on again and seemed to move in sync with the music in a strange dance around the kitchen, multitasking over something on the stove while he cut up ingredients on the board and beat together a vinaigrette all the while. Hanzo wondered if he always cooked in this haphazard way. All the time he watched Jesse work, he tried to dissect the method behind the madness, but there was no recipe book open, no timers set. He seemed to be running the show on instinct alone.

It was only when Jesse was mixing everything together that it clicked. 

“Tabouleh?” he said, and Jesse clapped and pointed at him.

“You got it! But ain’t that cheatin’, waitin’ ‘til I get to the last step?”

Hanzo held his head up. “You said before you plated.”

“So I did,” Jesse conceded, grabbing the plates from the top shelf. “You’ll get your prize later.”

Hanzo scowled, feeling his victory wasn’t truly his, and sat at the table expectantly. Jesse sauntered over, the two plates held high above his head and with a great sweep of his arm placed one in front of Hanzo. It glistened like a treasure chest full of ruby red strawberries and emerald green cucumbers, with golden little grains of bulgur heaping underneath. This was what Hanzo had meant when he called food an art.

Jesse put down his own plate with a little less flair and went to retrieve the radio from the counter, expecting Hanzo wouldn’t let them eat together unless it was blaring loud enough to drown out his chewing. There was a knock at the door.

Hanzo put down his fork and glanced uncertainly at Jesse. “You’re expecting someone?”

Jesse had an extremely guilty look on his face, but he tried to cover it up with a smile as he backed towards the door. “Probably just my landlord,” he said. “Always bugging me.”

“Jesse! It’s me! I’m coming in!”

And before Jesse could shout a warning, Genji burst in.


End file.
